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a 


'T'HE SEA 
1 THERE 


LA Y OUT 
{See page j/j) 



RETURN 


A STORY OF THE 
^ SEA ISLANDS IN 1739 


By 

ALICE MacGOWAN 

n 

AND 

GRACE MacGOWAN COOKE 
Authors of “The Last Word,” etc. 


2J£ 
$ )t) 


Illustrated by 
C. D. WILLIAMS 


BOSTON 

L. C. PAGE & COMPANY, Eg; 
MDCCCCV 


the library of 

CONGRESS. 

Two Cowes Received 

MAR SI 1905 

Copyright Entry 

Tf&A-M f9P<5 

CLASS Ct &X& ^ 

n x ex c 

copy a. 



Copyright , Ipos 

By L. C. Page & Company 
(incorporated) 


all rights 
RESERVED 

Published March, 1905 





\VI [“]•] g~R 

Co O, 


r o JOHN ENCILL MacGOWAN 

THROUGH WHOSE FORBEARS 
THE AUTHORS OF THIS BOOK 
TRACE BACK TO THE COUNTRY- 
MEN OF THOSE WHO FOUGHT 
WITH TARGE AND CLAYMORE FOR 
THE GATEWAY OF GEORGIA'S SEA 
IS LA NDS 





CONTENTS 



CHAPTER 

I. 

I. THE BOOK OF GOING 

At the Steps of the Altar 

FORTH 


PAGE 

11 

II. 

Where Blades Do Brag . 




26 

III. 

In the Dust 




46 

IV. 

The Hejira .... 




63 

V. 

A Tale Told in the Dark 




84 

VI. 

The Silent Lady 




104 

VII. 

James Oglethorpe 




11 7 

VIII. 

From Far Countries . 




136 

IX. 

Main Young .... 




150 

X. 

The Liming of Twigs. 




165 

XI. 

The Gift of a Grave 




187 

XII. 

Prophecies .... 




200 

XIII. 

Whitefield .... 




215 

XIV. 

The Wager .... 




225 

XV. 

The Tender Mercies of the 

Wicked 


241 

XVI. 

The Cup of Trembling 




248 

XVII. 

For Better or for Worse 




261 

XVIII. 

The Worse .... 




272 

XIX. 

The Outcome 




286 

XX. 

The Bad Legs of Repentance. 



300 


V 


vi CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

II. THE BOOK OF RETURNING 

I. 

The End of the Furrow . 


II. 

Thunderbolt’s Ancestry . 


III. 

An Encounter .... 


IV. 

Fort Moosa 


V. 

The Naming of a Man-child . 


VI. 

The Cameron’s Defeat 


VII. 

Alata Anawaqua 


VIII. 

Father and Daughter 


IX. 

Why Thunderbolt Was Born . 


X. 

The Battle of Bloody Marsh 


XI. 

Salequah 


XII. 

By Devious Ways 


XIII. 

The Theft of the Man-child 


XIV. 

Seekers after the White Man 


XV. 

Blind Chance .... 


XVI. 

Outside the Pale 


XVII. 

Alexander Buccleugh Is Called 


XVIII. 

A Sea Gift 

L’envoi 



PAGE 

• 311 

• 323 

• 335 

• 342 

• 352 

• 363 
. 381 

• 398 

. 412 

. 427 

• 436 

• 448 

• 463 

. 472 
. 486 

• 493 

• 509 

• 519 

• 539 


ILLUSTRATIONS 



PAGE 

“ The sea lay out there " Frontispiece 

“ ‘ A merry sight , my good people , to see a maid scorned !'" 21 

“ * And who am I to thank . . . for the return of my 

locket?'" 102 

“ ‘ Tell me what you think of one Diana Chaters ' ” .182 

“ ‘ Why, man,' he cooed , fingering the big dirk " . .411 

“ Clutched him to her with no sound but a dry , strangled 

sob" . 465 





























THE BOOK OF GOING FORTH 


RETURN 


CHAPTER I. 


AT THE STEPS OF THE ALTAR 

“Whither wilt thou betake thee 
O my false lover? 

I shall flee my country, 

None may me discover. 

O cruel, and cruel as fair; 

Long may you look for me — or look 
for me never ! ” 

P RAY — pray — pray do not let the carriage 
stop ! Stay the man out there in the street ! ” 
“ My lord, ’tis too late — ’tis past praying 
— they are here.” 

The carriage, a lumbering old vehicle, drawn by 
two magnificent horses and driven by a liveried In- 
dian coachman, had come to a stop at the curb. The 
negro outriders reined backward, the negro footman 
sprang from the rumble, opened the coach door, and 
a tall, majestic girl in bridal robes leaned forward 
and looked out. 

There was a crowd about the doorway of St. 

ii 


RETURN 


I 2 

Philip’s, and the bride showed by just the faintest 
lowering of the haughty lids, and just the merest 
something added to the pride of her bearing, that 
she was aware of the attention she attracted, the 
admiration she commanded. 

The gentleman who had first spoken wrung his 
hands. 

“ For all the world to see! For all the world to 
see! ” he moaned. “ Oh, my poor Diana! ” 

There was plainly a relationship between the two. 
The man was tall and elegant also, with the same 
peculiar aristocratic delicacy of hands and feet, of 
head and bearing, which marked the girl ; but there 
was something supine in his refinement, something 
feeble in his elegance, which was strangely con- 
tradicted in her more virile bearing. 

Two other coaches now drew up behind the first. 
There was a surging forward in the crowd upon the 
sidewalk, and friends came out to receive the brides- 
maids. Only the bride, since her uncle still hung 
back and whimpered, was left ungreeted. Her chal- 
lenging glance sought him out in the crowd, and 
the man who had once before prompted him pushed 
him forward with a whisper, “ You must e’en see 
it through, Sir Paris ; ’tis no time to palter.” 

Sir Paris removed from his powdered ringlets 
the three-cornered hat, set it against his hip with 
little finger genteelly cocked in air, and, mincing for- 
ward with any but a holiday face, bowed low and 
offered his arm. 

When he would have led the girl in the direction 
of the vestry, she halted him. “ What is toward? ” 
she demanded, head up, eyes full of anger. 

Come with me, my niece,” urged her relative, 


return 


13 

ill a sort of strangled whisper. “ I will explain, — 
I can explain, — but not here before all these 
people.” 

It was more than a hundred and fifty years ago 
in the wealthy and elegant colonial city of Charles 
Town, South Carolina. The wedding was that of 
Diana Chaters, a belle and a beauty, who for years 
had queened it in the rich, aristocratic, and peculiarly 
exclusive society of Charles Town, which was near- 
ing the height of its provincial glory. 

An orphaned heiress, proud, insolent, overbear- 
ing, she gloried in the name of the crudest jilt, the 
most heartless coquette, of all the region round. 
To-day she was to wed a Scotchman who claimed 
kin with the semi-royal house of Argyle, Archie 
Cameron, a man double her years, and with a record 
of gallantries to' daunt any woman. 

He had brought to Charles Town letters to promi- 
nent families, a pocketful of money, and a bearing 
the most debonair; had played high and lost cheer- 
fully, drunk deep and carried his liquor easily; and 
was hero of one or two tales which were told in 
clubs and tap-rooms, and of which expurgated ver- 
sions were retailed to the more indulgent wives. 

In short, he showed himself a man of fashion 
according to the eighteenth century standard — and 
a bold, dashing blade as well. 

The wooing had proceeded with unseemly haste. 
Those who would have warned and counselled Diana 
— good women — ladies — held aloof. Just three 
times had Cameron met her when the proposal was 
made and accepted. 

The man claimed that he was going on a brief 
trip to the Georgia colony below, yet he urged an 


RETURN 


14 

early date for the wedding, with which this state- 
ment ill agreed, promising to be surely back in 
Charles Town in good season. And upon this 
assurance the headstrong girl had carried forward 
her wedding preparations. 

Now, half-way to the vestry door, Diana pulled 
her hand from her uncle’s arm. “ Why should I 
go in there?” she inquired. “A bride does not 
creep into the rear of the church. ’Tis not seemly.” 

But her uncle, whose legs were giving under 
him, pleaded earnestly, “ O, come, sweet Diana, 
I pray you — will nobody lend me a smelling-salts ? 
There — ah ! that is better ! ” And he more hung 
upon the arm of the tall, upright bride than she 
on his. 

Once inside the little vestry, and the door shut. 
Sir Paris looked about him, at the bride’s angry 
questioning countenance, at the malicious, sneering 
faces of her bridesmaids (she had made deliberate 
choice of those girls who had been her greatest 
rivals — friends she had not) ; he looked on these, 
and to the minister waiting in his vestments — and 
burst into weak tears. 

“ Oh, I cannot tell her ! ” he protested. “ ’Tis a 
task too bitter.” 

The bride’s wrathful eyes interrogated him. She 
caught him by the shoulder and shook him. He 
faltered out, “ Archie Cameron hath not come.” 

“ And is that all ! ” she cried, her voice full of 
relief, yet vibrant with scorn of his weakness. 
“ Why said ye not so at the first? ” Then, after an 
instant’s pause and a glance at the mute faces 
surrounding her, she exclaimed, with resentful im- 
patience, “ Why, he lay at Colonel Brueton’s, on the 


RETURN 


15 

Island, whence I had word from him o’ yesterday 
that neither wind nor tide need be reckoned in the 
matter of his coming, for that he would swim the 
sound, liefer than not be in Charles Town this 
morning — this day. What more like than that he 
hath been delayed on the treacherous passage from 
the Island ? No need to put yourself in a taking — 
he will be here.” 

“ Nay,” whimpered her uncle. “ Oh, fan me, 
somebody ! Revive me — I faint — I perish ! He 
hath come to Charles Town, my sweet niece. He is 
even now at a tavern, where he — where he — ” 

“ Aye, my negress, Juno, thought she saw from 
an attic window the boat come in, the party dis- 
embark and go up to the King’s Arms. He will be 
here shortly.” And again, divided between anger 
and apprehension, she looked on the silent faces 
about her. 

Now the unfortunate Sir Paris (who possessed, 
as he conceived, the prettiest taste in the world in 
matters of arrangement and decoration) had reck- 
lessly indulged himself in the untoward activity 
of going to' the church betimes, to see that the last 
touches were properly bestowed, had placed himself 
thereby in the forefront of the wretched battle, and 
received in his devoted bosom the discharge from 
its first gun — a letter from Archie Cameron sent 
to the church. The document was borne open 
in the hand of a tipsy, leering pot-boy who, 
whether through his own ingenuity or the cruel 
inhumanity of those who sent him, was plainly 
master of the paper’s import. 

It was this communication, and the wanton brutal- 
ity of its delivery, which had set Sir Paris twittering 


i6 


RETURN 


from vestry to' porch, wringing his hands, till it was 
too late to go up to the mansion-house, thus leaving 
the bride to come alone to the church in her great 
coach. And now (with all this seething in his 
mind) Diana’s boasting of Cameron’s devotion was 
upon her uncle’s ear as hot iron upon raw flesh. 

“ O, yes, he is at the King’s Arms,” the be- 
devilled Sir Paris faltered, (Diana heaved a great 
sigh of relief,) “ but he sends you, from there, such 
message — such word as — as I cannot repeat to 
you.” 

“ What — ” began Diana, in a tone of exaspera- 
tion. Then, catching sight of a paper thrust anyway 
into his embroidered satin waistcoat, among over- 
flowing lace ruffles, she snatched it out and, silencing 
his piteous protests with a gesture, devoured the 
letter with burning eyes. She read : — 

“ I am told that for Years you have made it your 
cruell Boast to refuse, and scornfully reject and hold 
up to ridicule Honourable Gent n , who were at 
every point your Betters. 

“ The talk is now that you are in the mind to 
wed — to allye yourself with One who claims to be 
neather better nor worse than those his Fellowes 
whom you mispryzed and jeered and flouted. 

“You are in the mind to wed? Do soe by all 
Means, my Layde. Methinks matrimonie might 
be a cure for One so curst ; but haveing no fancy to 
try the tameing of a Shrew more bitter than Petru- 

chio’s Kate, I give you my best Wishes and 

good-bye. 

“ If an y man will have you hearafter, wed whom 
you will. 


return 


1 7 


“ ’Twill certainly not be, 

“ My Layde, 

“With profound resp*, 

“ Your Ladyship’s most obed* and obleeged 
“ Humble serv* to command (in all else), 
“ Archibald Cameron.” 

Diana’s blazing eyes were raised from perusal 
of this amazing brief to rest upon her trembling 
uncle, where he stood quailing in anticipation, the 
tittering bridesmaids behind him. 

“ And he is in Charles Town! ” she cried, in the 
fullest tone of her deep voice. “ This hound — 
this coward and liar ! ” She levelled her finger at 
Sir Paris as though she pointed a weapon. “ You 
are here — you stay here — to tell me that he is in 
Charles Town, that he has sent me messages of 
scorn — and that he lives! That he lives to do 
this thing to Diana Chaters ? ” 

She turned, with both her clenched hands raised, 
stood so for a moment, then with a great cry, flung 
herself down upon a seat and panted : 

“ ’Tis because I have no man kin to me, that this 
shame hath been put upon me! And there was none 
to strike for me — none — none — none ! ” 

She hung so a moment, sobbing, and then the 
voice of her first bridesmaid penetrated her disarray. 

“La!” quoth that thrifty damsel, who bore in 
her little mind many an unappeased grudge against 
the haughty Diana, “ ’twas scarce worth while to 
buy a flowered paduasoy and taffety petticoat — 
and new lace points, too* — for such mischance as 
this.” 

And the other shrilled after her, “Fine work! 


1 8 


RETURN 


All our learning of how to enter the church — and 
how to present the bride with prayer-book — to 
receive her glove — when there comes no bride- 
groom ! ” 

The words stung poor Diana to action. She rose 
up with eyes of fury. “ Wear your paduasoy where 
you will, Mistress Thankful Partridge ! ” she 
sneered. “ You will ever look yellow as a lemon in 
it. For waiting on Diana Chaters, Mistress Sally 
Pryber, whether as bridesmaid or serving woman, 
’tis an up-come for you. I will go home,” and she 
made toward a door which led into the church. 
“ Uncle, your arm,” she ordered. “ I leave these 
fools to do as pleases them best. My carriages and 
servants are at their behest; not myself. I will go 
home.” 

Sir Paris caught at her draperies and held her 
back. “ Not that way,” he whispered ; “ not through 
the church — before them all.” 

“ Why not that way? ” demanded Diana, fiercely. 
“ Think you I am ashamed to show my face, because 
a man hath played the blackguard? Nay, I’ll go 
this way or none.” And hastening ahead of the 
trembling rector and the two bridesmaids, who 
hoped for further sensational developments, she 
chose the nearer of two doors, laid her hand upon 
its knob and, amid a sudden outcry of expostulation 
from those behind her, turned it and pushed blindly 
through. This door led directly to the altar 
enclosure. 

. That no grandeur might be lacking at the wed- 
ding of this fortunate young heiress and beauty, it 
had fallen that there was in Charles Town a bishop 
from Virginia, of beautiful and venerable aspect, 


RETURN 


19 

whom Sir Paris had declared would add as greatly 
to the artistic value of the ceremony as he would to 
its ecclesiastical dignity. 

Now Diana saw before her, for one dizzying in- 
stant, the altar lights, the bishop kneeling* with his 
back to the congregation, his head bowed in prayer. 
The sight held her for a moment, and during that 
time the rector, despairing of any attempt to recall 
her, and supposing that the bishop would quiet and 
bring her back, pushed the three others before him 
toward that vestry door which led directly into the 
body of the church. From this door descended 
several broad, shallow steps, and upon the uppermost 
the three paused. 

The church was the old historic St. Philip, after- 
ward burned, in which Whitefield preached, where 
he was, lhter, tried, and which his biographer calls 
“ a grand pile, resembling one of the new churches 
in London.” Half hidden by some decorations which 
Sir Paris had put in place, the bride looked down 
upon those guests who had come to see her married, 
and who were now to see her publicly jilted. It was 
an assemblage such as no daylight — nor perhaps 
even lamplight — could show to the present times. 
The powdered hair and gay brocades of both men 
and women, the profusion of jewels, were such as 
nothing but a masquerade or carnival reproduces 
now. 

Always a pet and favourite colony of the English 
crown, Carolina had lived in peace and waxed fat 
upon the commerce of the West Indies. Her people 
were noted for their elegance, the boundless hospi- 
tality which they extended to guests, and the ex- 
clusive and jealous eye with which they held their 


20 


RETURN 


society high above the reach of vulgar newcomers. 
Cut off by distance from Virginia above, and by war 
from the Spaniards below, this province was from 
the first a little realm of its own, which evolved a 
society unmatched in the new world. And here was 
all the elegance, beauty, and fashion of the Charles 
Town of 1739, gathered in St. Philip’s to see Diana 
Chaters married to Archibald Cameron. 

As, startled and shrinking back, Diana looked out 
upon it, there rose and spread over the congregation 
a whisper of unseemly laughter. It is but justice 
to say that the mirth was not a comment upon her 
plight, — it was not known nor had she as yet been 
observed, — but a joyous, spontaneous tribute to the 
appearance of Sir Paris. That worthy gentleman, 
whose years were beginning to steal his roses, was 
accustomed to rouge himself. Now, having wept 
and mopped his eyes and wept again, the smears of 
red upon his countenance would have shamed a 
clown in a pantomime. 

The bishop rose in surprise and came a step nearer 
the trembling girl. She put out a hand, never taking 
her eyes from the sea of curious, impertinent, hos- 
tile faces before her, and whispered to him, “ Say 
there will be no wedding here to-day. Disperse 
them — oh, the fools ! — disperse them, I pray 
you ! ” and her voice rose a little, with the last words, 
above the opening whisper. 

The sneering, amused faces, at this sound, turned 
all their prying eyes upon her, and to the smiles 
were added whisperings and nudgings. Diana’s 
courage, which any kindness would have melted, 
rose up to meet their seeming insolence. They tit- 
tered, did they? They laughed at her open sham- 



‘ M MERRY SIGHT, MY GOOD PEOPLE , 
** TO SEE A MA ID SCORNED ! ’ ” 
















































































* 













RETURN 


2 I 

in g, as at the tumble of a yokel into a gutter. She 
would rather the men had struck at her, the women 
cried epithets and pointed fingers. 

For one instant she leaned, clutching the drapery 
which had concealed her, roving a furious and des- 
olate gaze over that press of brocades and gems 
and gem-like eyes, as though she sought for ruth 
or pity which there might be in that multitude for 
her. The fierce invective with which she would 
later meet their scorn waited, hung for a moment, 
as hangs an avalanche, before that last tiny rootlet 
which stays its reckless course gives way, and it 
sweeps roaring to the valley. Then she cried: 

“ A merry sight, my good people, to see a maid 
scorned ! And one who hath held her head high — 
whom ye have many a time envied ! ” 

“ Hush, oh, hush, my daughter ! ” begged the old 
bishop, his hand upon her arm, horrified when her 
woman’s voice went ringing through the sacred 
arches. “ ’Tis not meet that a woman speak in the 
church. Let me — ” 

As though his words had wrought her to greater 
rage, she sprang to the altar steps, and stood there 
glaring at her wedding guests. Mere words ceased 
to be sufficient to express her fury. Draping the 
mighty structure of powdered hair upon her head 
was a bridal veil of Flanders lace, a well-nigh price- 
less web of rich and intricate design cunningly 
wrought by the patient hands of Flemish women. It 
had veiled beautiful Polly Antrobus for her wedding 
with Sir Hector Chaters. Now Diana reached up 
in speechless fury and, with a sudden gesture which 
brought the pile of curls and tresses about her white 


22 


RETURN 


face, plucked it off, and casting it before her, fiercely 
trampled it. She found voice again. 

“ I pray to God,” she cried, “ that your daughters 
may come to such shame as this — and worse — 
aye, hear ye? worse! ” 

She was going on with Heaven knows what wild 
words, when a woman who had been passing the 
door, a young and beautiful woman, but in the 
coarse garb of a peasant, the ornamentation of 
which suggested Indian work, turned, attracted by 
the unbridled tongues, asked and was told the mean- 
ing of such to-do, then came swiftly up the aisle 
and caught Diana in her arms. 

“ Get her from here ! ” she cried, in full, mellow 
tones to Sir Paris, whose face of misery identified 
him with the raging girl. “ If you be a man, help 
me to carry her. Do you no see she’s swounded? 
Why, the poor thing was mad ! Mad with the shame 
and pain of it! There! There! ” as Diana stirred 
on her shoulder and sobbed. And she led the poor 
bride out between the wondering people, repelling 
all offers of assistance, flinging a black look or 
even an oath now and then to those who pressed 
toward her to address or look upon Diana in her 
pitiful plight. 

Near the doorway, they came to a sort of dead- 
lock in the crowd. A thin, high-shouldered young 
beau in a suit of puce silk and fine lace ruffles 
pushed hastily forward, negligent of everything but 
to peer into the face hidden upon the rescuer’s 
breast. Thrusting his narrow visage obliquely 
at the two, “Has the bride fainted?” he inquired, 
with mock solicitude. 

The girl’s right arm was about Diana’s shudder- 


return 


23 


in g, shrinking- form; but her left hand shot out 
and lit with a resounding smack upon the gentle- 
man’s cheek. 

“ Take that for your impudence! ” she cried. 

“ I warrant me he’ll need no rouge o’ that side his 
face,” tittered some one in the crowd. 

“ Let him bring his impudent mug back here 
spying and prying,” the young Amazon muttered, 
“ and I’ll paint t’other cheek as good a red.” 

Sir Paris had found it convenient to travel in the 
wake of the two women. Once out in the sunlight, 
the girl spoke to- him. 

“ Here, old man,” she urged, “ if you be a man 
at all, and not an auld wife in breeches, get the 
carriage around for us — ’tis o’ -the further side.” 

Sir Paris tottered away, addressing himself to his 
smelling-bottle, wiping his eyes with his lace hand- 
kerchief, and murmuring, “ Oh, alas, the heavy day, 
the heavy day ! ” 

They stood awaiting the coach. Diana turned 
and looked into the face near hers. “ Who are 
you?” she began, in a monotonous tone, “You 
that have dared to show kindness to Diana Chaters 
this day. Look to the steps there. See the sneer- 
ing crowd. You are sadly in the minority — poor 
fool!” 

“ I am old Dad Buckaloo’s girl, Lit; and for 
being a fool, it runs in the family,” answered the 
newcomer, as the coach drew up before them. 

The church porch was fast filling with people, 
many of whom were staring, laughing, putting up 
quizzing glasses, as though at a play or a show — 
and among these the quondam bridesmaids led. 
Any who would have been kind — and there was 


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24 

no lack of such in that high-bred, warm-hearted 
society of Charles Town — were withheld by their 
own acquaintance with Diana’s temper, or by the 
mere reputation of it. They simply withdrew. 
Those in evidence were the froward and unfeeling 
(that element of fashionable society of which no 
period can claim a monopoly) who would reckon 
a sight like this a little better amusement than a 
bear-baiting or the public pillorying of some unlucky 
offender. 

The smiles with which his usually stolid coach- 
man had received him were attributed on Sir Paris’s 
part to the story of Diana’s jilting being already 
known to the man. But when their ally, having 
placed her fainting charge upon the carriage seat, 
faced him, she burst into a mellow peal of laughter 
about which there was no mistake. 

“ Good lack, man ! ” she gasped. “ Your face, 
your face! ’Tis smeared with red like a Chicka- 
saw’s on the war-path — ’tis worse than a mummer’s 
at Christmas time ! ” 

Then, with a return to that fluent good nature, 
that easy kindness which was the basis of her char- 
acter, she drew a kerchief from her bosom, wetted 
it from Sir Paris’s essence bottle, and scrubbed 
his cheeks, he standing with the pitiful air of a 
small child undergoing toilet, to the manifest and 
expressed delight of the crowd in the porch, which 
began now to dispart itself, and quitting the place 
in groups of two and three, to pass close by the 
coach step, with insolent, examining looks. 

“ There, now,” she observed, finally, bundling 
him into the coach, “ you look quite tidy and re- 
spectable. Go home, old gentleman, and keep some 


heart in you. The poor soul there needs it. Though, 
for the matter of that, if you be indeed an auld wife 
in breeches, methinks she is a warrior in petticoats.” 

For Diana, having recovered from her swoon, 
was sitting rigidly erect, putting back her dishev- 
elled hair, fronting without a quiver the daylight 
and those who would have looked upon her un- 
covered face. And the last sight Lit had of them 
as the coach drove away, was of Sir Paris holding 
his head between his hands, while Diana touched 
him ^ on the shoulder and fiercely bade him, “ For 
God’s sake, sit up and be a man ! ” 


CHAPTER II. 


WHERE BLADES DO BRAG 

She's brewed the maut, she's ca’d the priest, 

She’s trimmed her bower, bot an’ her ha’ ; 

She’s bidden in the wedding guests, 

But her fause love, he’s up an’ awa.” 

S the great coach lumbered away, the girl 



who' had given her name as Lit Buckaloo 


-*• bent and picked up from the ground a shin- 
ing something at which she gazed round-eyed for a 
moment, then glanced after the departing vehicle 
and made as though she would have pursued it. 
Seeing that it was too far on its way for her to 
hope to overtake the man even by running, she 
looked again at her find, whistled, and thrust it 
into the bosom of her coarse stuff gown with just 
the motion a careless man makes in tucking some 
trifle into a waistcoat pocket. 

“ She’ll not be thinking of baubles like this,” Hit 
muttered. “ It will be some time before my lady 
would miss a thing of the sort ; and I must e’en go 
and get Dad’s errand done. I have dallied too long 
already. I will seek her to-night. By that time 
she will be lowest in her mind — poor soul — and 
need some one to chirk her up a bit.” 

With this philosophical review of the situation, 


26 


return 


27 


the girl would have addressed herself to her own 
affairs, but that, at the moment, her ear and eye 
were both arrested by the tones and action of a 
gentleman who, standing on the steps of St. Philip’s, 
rehearsed to a group of acquaintances the whole 

story of the defeated wedding, adding thereto 

evidently from his own personal knowledge — a his- 
tory of the precedent occurrences which explained 
it all. 

The speaker was he who had prompted and re- 
monstrated with Sir Paris; and as Lit, standing 
apart, listened to his setting forth of the whole mat- 
ter along with the many comments and sneers, the 
utterances of heartless satisfaction, the proffers of 
more insulting pity, her big, thick-fringed, doe-like 
eyes swam, and her shapely brown hands clenched 
hard. “ Quality ! They’re but so many devils ! ” 
she muttered, and moved hastily away. 

Late that afternoon, having concluded her father’s 
errand, which was the obtaining of a packet of 
indigo seed from the Lucas plantation on the 
Wappoo, she walked alone toward the Boar’s Head, 
her father, and her supper. In the waning light 
of fast approaching dusk, she received and returned 
an ironical bow from the gentleman whose face 
she had slapped in the church ; and so well did her 
appearance and manner please him that he followed 
and accosted her. 

“ I beg pardon, madam,” he began, “ may I know 
to whom I am — to whose delicate hand — lam be- 
holden for a slapped face? ” 

“ Dost want another ? ” she interrogated, quickly, 
turning upon the questioner; and a second man of 
his own class, who approached at the moment, took 


28 


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him by the arm and drew him aside, saying as he 
did so, “ ’Tis old Dad Buckaloo’s girl, Lit. Let 
her be. She has a pretty temper of her own, and can 
use her fists like a man. Besides, the old Scotchman 
is quite like to make himself mighty disagreeable, 
though he is easy enough if you choose to come 
up on his good side. Come, shall I present you? 
Will you make the acquaintance in the regular man- 
ner ? ” And arm in arm the two followed Lit to 
the Boar’s Head, an inn much frequented by drovers 
and Indian traders. 

This little low-browed house seemed just now 
to be the rallying-point of vast festivity, for there 
made itself heard from the tap-room a great singing, 
mingled with the clinking of glasses, and the ryth- 
mic pound of heavy-shod feet accompanied by the 
soft pat-and-shuffle of those unshod. Lit and her 
two followers stepped inside. A great, black- 
bearded giant was seated upon the bar, roaring out 
bits of song, and keeping time with his drinking 
mug, while on the floor before him an Indian and 
a Highlandman danced a match, and a dozen or 
more bystanders looked on or attended to their 
own concerns. 

“ Na, na! ” he on the bar shouted to his country- 
man. “ You’re already beaten. Your wind is gane, 
you are nigh spent. Opayhatchoo is not touched 
at all. He could leap like that until dawn. As well 
gie o’er trying.” 

This was old Dad Buckaloo, born Buccleugh, and 
christened Alexander, son of a Scottish laird of no 
mean pretensions. With the curse of the wanderer 
on him from his birth, a natural gipsy and breaker 
of laws, he had knocked about the world since com- 


return 


29 

mg to manhood, and, as he told it, had gone down, 
seventeen or eighteen years before, into the country 
of the Creeks, where he married him a wife. Cer- 
tainly, it was thence that he now occasionally 
emerged with his tall, strong, dark daughter, to 
do a bit of horse-trading or purchase such supplies 
as were necessary for his very primitive mode of 
life. 

Lit now went forward and put Miss Lucas’s letter 
in her father’s hand, which diverted him for a 
moment from the dancers. Mastering its contents 
and pushing it into' his pocket, he once more ad- 
dressed himself to the saltations of his Indian friend 
and his countryman. 

“ They ha’ been dancin’ this twa hours ; and 
Donny, the fule, will nae gie up,” he appealed to 
the newcomers. 

Danny’s legs, it appeared, however, were not of 
the opinion of his head; for these incontinently 
failing him at this instant, he sank down prone and 
groaning. Old Buckaloo burst into a great roar 
of laughter, in which the two gentlemen joined. 
But Lit, with a concerned face, helped the spent 
and panting Donny to a seat. 

“ You ever take pleasure in some cruel sport, 
Dad,” she reproached her father. “ Nothing but 
something that hurts somebody else can make you 
merry.” 

Buckaloo laughed again at the accusation, and 
bade the company in the room to come and drink 
with him. 

“ This is an odd fish,” remarked Captain Tills- 
ford, the gentleman of the slapped face, to his com- 
panion, “ an odd fish, Fallowfield.” 


30 


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“ Mr. Buccleugh, I believe,” Major Fallowfield 
remarked, as he raised his glass. 

The formal words appealed to something which 
was generally in abeyance in old Dad. “ Alexander 
Buccleugh, at your service,” he repeated, with a 
grand flourishing bow. 

“ I met you last year, sir, at Savannah,” Major 
Fallowfield went on. “ You have a plantation some- 
where below on the Sea Islands, have you not? ” 

“ O, yes, I have a plantation or so on Wissoo 

— you English have called it Cumberland Island 

— and I was in Savannah a good deal last year. 
My headquarters is down in the Creek country, 
on the St. Mary’s. ’Tis not far from the river 
Alata, that which the Spaniards have named St. 
John’s — ’tis the boundary between the lands of 
the Indians and the Spanish.” 

“ We met your daughter,” Captain Tillsford 
hinted, “ at a wedding at St. Philip’s.” 

“ A wedding ? ” inquired Buckaloo, with raised 
brows. 

“ Well, not exactly a wedding,” smiled Fallow- 
field. 

“ ’Twas the crudest dog’s trick,” broke in Lit, 
“ the sort of trick that a man will ever be trying 
to compass, and other men be ready to admire,” 
and she scowled at Tillsford, who smiled and bowed 
as though to a compliment. 

“ What was it, then, if not exactly a wedding? ” 
inquired Buckaloo. 

“Why, ’twas like this,” began Tillsford; “we 
have in our society here a very noted beauty, Mis- 
tress Diana Chaters, the orphan heiress of Sir Hec- 
tor Chaters, and the most heartless little hussy 


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3i 

that ever 'cozened an honest man for the sake of 
jilting him. She numbers her victims by the score, 
and boasts of them as a Chickasaw brave boasts of 
his scalps.” 

“ Tis an easy guess at one scalp she has taken,” 
laughed Lit, looking at his flushed, angry face. 

“ I say she deserved it, I say she was well served,” 
went on Tillsford, boisterously. 

“ Deserved what ? ” inquired his host, who still 
sat upon the bar, and occasionally applied to the 
drawer behind the counter that his mug might be 
filled. 

“ Why, Archibald Cameron, who is a pretty fel- 
low and hath a very taking way with a woman, 
made a wager when he first came to Charles Town, 
and before he had met the jilt, that he would 
propose marriage to her, be accepted, and jilt her 
in turn openly, at the altar, within four weeks of 
their first meeting. And, by heaven, he did it, too' ! 
That was the thing which chanced to-day, and which 
I have said was a wedding, and yet not quite a 
wedding.” 

Buckaloo laughed, and ordered drinks around 
again. “ ’Tis a brave tale,” he declared. “ And 
now what are the men of her family about, and 
who is to settle with the fellow ? ” 

“ You may be sure,” Lit again broke in, “ that 
a hound like that knew well there was no man to 
fight for her, before he put such a shame upon her. 
You men are all alike; ’tis a question of fighting, 
and no thought of the poor maid’s heart that’s 
broken.” 

“ Nay, mistress,” remonstrated Fallowfield, in a 
more kindly tone, “ the point is that the lady in this 


32 


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case showed no heart. If the Honourable Diana 
Chaters has one, and it is a good one, none has so 
far seen evidence of it.” 

“ And the man ? ” cried lit, angrily. “ What of 
him? He showed heart, did he?” 

“ Why, no,” answered Fallowfield, “ ’tis no ques- 
tion of his - heart. He but paid the lady out in her 
own coin, or such coin as she had used toward 
others. And — though I would not myself have 
done the thing — I cannot see that it misbecame him 
as a man and a gentleman.” 

“ I would you men had all but one neck, that I 
might wring it,” flashed Lit. 

“ Why, ’tis a classical young damsel who quotes 
Nero to us,” taunted Tillsford in a low voice, and 
with a wary eye on old Buckaloo, for the moment 
engaged with Donny. 

Lit flushed darkly and bent her black brows dan- 
gerously upon him. “ I am not acquainted with 
that person,” she retorted. “ What I say, I say 
for myself.” 

“ And I,” laughed Fallowfield^ “ would that all 
the women had but one neck, and that I had my arm 
around it. Come, fair mistress, you are much too 
handsome to be so unkind.” 

Lit made no answer in words. Turning to Bucka- 
loo, “ Was that all you wanted of me, father? ” she 
inquired. “ May I go now ? ” 

Buckaloo caught her arm. He was beginning to 
feel the liquor he had drunk. “ No, stay a bit, and 
tell us something about this young dame you defend 
so fiercely.” 

“ 1 know nothing of her,” said Lit, “ except that 


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33 

she is a woman and has been cruelly used by a 
man.” 

“ Which makes her claim upon your sympathies 
secure, seeing that you have a father who was un- 
kind enough to give you an Indian mother. Well, 
there be some that cannot appreciate a good an- 
cestry. For my part, I would rather be descended 
from old Tomo-chi-chi than from the King of Eng- 
land. But ’tis a matter of taste — a matter of 
taste,” and he laughed and released her. 

As Lit left the room in quest of a bit of supper, 
Tills ford spoke again. “ You called the heroine 
of this morning’s little 4 Measure for Measure * 
comedy 4 The Honourable Diana Chaters,’ I be- 
lieve; and she has as much right to that title as 
my negress Mopsy, or the first Indian squaw you 
meet on the street.” 

44 I have often heard her called so,” explained 
Fallowfield. 

“ Then you have often heard her miscalled,” re- 
torted Tillsford. “ Her father was a beggarly 
baronet; and now that he is gone, her uncle, Sir 
Paris, has the title. I have heard fools call her 
4 The Lady Diana,,’ but a baronet’s daughter hath 
no title. One would think her father had been 
an earl to hear you mouth 4 Honourable ’ before 
her name.” 

44 Well, her money’s her own. She pays the bills 
and holds the purse strings in that house,” inter- 
rupted a red- faced butcher who was leaning upon 
the counter with his mug of ale. 44 Honourable 
and well she pays ’em, too. Call her honourable, 
I say, and why not ? ” 

44 Why not ? ” echoed Tillsford. 44 Because she 


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34 

has no right to the title. Money she has, yes. The 
gold wherewith her common-born mother bought 
Sir Hector Chaters, her titled dad. O, ’tis a 
mighty fortune she holds in her fool hands; and 
there is the only reason why a man of sense would 
look at her to wed her — for she hath the devil’s 
own temper. No, she hath no title.” 

Lit had returned, and was eating a good supper 
in a comer. “ Why, that’s no so bad, neither,” 
she murmured. “ A baronet’s daughter, with a 
mighty fortune to her, and the beautifullest impe- 
rial young queen that ever wore a shoe. Methinks 
that would be enough to dazzle a hatchet-faced 
lieutenant of militia, with not one coin to rub against 
another,” she observed, genially, to her mug; and 
the sally was answered by a roar of laughter in 
which old Buckaloo’s voice rang loudest. 

When the mirth subsided, an elderly man over 
in a corner, whom the landlord addressed as 
Mr. Sparling, spoke up. “ Nay, nay, justice for 
all, my hearties. You may or may not like the 
daughter, who is certainly curst; and” (with a 
wink) “ she may or may not like you. But the 
mother was not common born. She died very soon 
after the family came to the Americas. But I re- 
member well when she was the belle of Bristol 
town, . admired not only for her beauty, but for 
her wit, and as far exceeded this offspring of hers 
as the sun exceeds the moon. She was presented 
at court, and Queen Anne doted upon her, and 
often invited her. She stooped, man — stooped — 
to marry Sir Hector. He won her by his dashing 
ways, not she bought him. ’Twas said he courted 
her like Master William Shakespeare’s blacka- 


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35 

moor hero — by a relation of his daring adventures 
and hairbreadth ’scapes. And, faith, he had ’em, 
had young Sir Hector Chaters, for he was a bold 
blade.” 

“ Well,” observed Tillsford, bitingly, “ there 
seems to be rather a pitiful outcome for so notable 
a pair, — but one descendant, and she so little worthy 
her parentage.” 

“ Unfair again,” declared the old man, stoutly. 
“ This offspring of debonair Sir Hector Chaters, 
had she but been breeched instead of petticoated, 
would have been held most worthy. The poor maid 
has too much blood and spirit for the distaff — she 
wants a sword.” 

Upon the heels of an outbreak of laughter, com- 
ments, protests, and suggestions from the crowd, the 
door suddenly burst open as though gunpowder had 
bidden it, and a young gentleman, very much flushed 
with wine or laughter, and apparently breathless 
from running, irrupted into the heart of the com- 
pany. He paused in the middle of the room, under 
the fire of many expectant glances, waved some- 
thing white above his head, and cried out, laughing : 

“ News, gentlemen, news from the Honourable 
Mistress Diana Chaters! The latest information 
for sale for one drink, or as many more as any man 
choose to offer ! Who bids ? ” 

Unwelcome as the words were to her ears, some- 
thing in the vivid poise of the lithe young figure, 
the innocent, boyish flash of the big, liquid eyes, 
and the merry, quizzical turn of the graceful head, 
took strong hold upon Lit’s fancy. There was a 
roaring chorus of assent, and the young fellow was 


return 


36 

borne to the bar by half a dozen enthusiastic bidders 
for his information. 

He sprang lightly upon it, and seated himself 
beside Dad Buckaloo, who genially resigned his post 
of honour, and sprawled thereafter upon a settle 
nearer the fire. Waving an ale mug in each hand, he 
swept those eloquent eyes about the room to pick 
up his audience. Finding it, to a man, hanging in a 
mute ecstasy of expectation upon his words — 

“ Well, then,” he cried, “ ’twas thus: I stand — 
by a blessed, heavenly chance — just before the 
Chaters mansion when the Honourable Diana (hav- 
ing quarrelled with her bridegroom and sent him to 
the right about, as I suppose, and having, as I was 
told, boxed the ears of the priest) comes home to 
this same mansion in a very still fury. I have ever 
noticed that these termagants have a way of looking 
as though they were frozen, up to the last moment, 
which sees them break loose and carry all before 
them.” 

Here he drank deeply from the right-hand mug, 
held it back, regarding it questioninglv and medita- 
tively, sipped critically at the left-hand jorum, then 
srmled richly upon the two, and continued : 

Mistress Diana mounts me the steps very slow 
and stately, leaning upon the arm of her uncle. 
In the hallway (’tis a vast, great doorway — one 
could drive, a coach through it at a gallop — and 
we who paid not a penny to the show saw it all 
from the street, like sitting in the pit of the theatre) , 
in the hallway she meets her servants, all bedecked 
with new clothes of her buying to grace this occa- 
sion, and with smirks of their own invention to 


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37 

back the clothes, and one old n egress bent before 
her and saluted her as Mistress Cameron ! 

“ Oh ! ” and he laughed, and all his listeners 
laughed after him. “ She flew upon the old woman 
like a naughty child on its doll which it conceives 
to have offended, snatched the turban off the bob- 
bing head, and beat and clouted her with it, crying 
out, ‘ Grinning fools, there was no wedding ! I am 
not Mistress Cameron! Clear this hall! Carry 
those silly flowers and fling them into the creek. 
To the right about, every one of you! ’ 

“ So much I both saw and heard, sustaining 
myself, weak with laughter, against a lamp-post. 
Then my lady went into the great drawing-rooms, 
and at once a vast commotion broke out. They 
say she ran fairly amuck. Servants, musicians, 
tradesmen, and some few humble friends who had 
been bidden to assist in the entertainment, and had 
not been thought worthy to go to the church, 
she cuffed and pummelled and berated. She 
screamed, she raved, she tore down the garlands of 
flowers with her own hands. She grasped the edge 
of the great table-cloth on the feast-table, and, with 
a strength incredible for a woman, dragged it off. 
They say she broke five hundred pounds’ worth of 
china and such like precious stuff.” 

“ And well she might,” commented Mr. Sparling. 
“ Sir Hector Chaters brought home rare china from 
the countries he visited, and her table was a show 
in itself.” 

“ Well, next minute,” went on the young man, 
sipping first from one ale mug and then the other, 
“ out came flying the musicians as though the deil 
were after them. One great fat fellow, with a 


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38 

viol — hatless, and shielding his head with the 
big fat fiddle, as though he feared to be struck — 
came skimming past me, and I caught him by his 
coat and stayed him. ’Twas he who, when I had 
soothed him and put a quartern of good ale into 
him, gave me an account of the marvellous doings 
in the drawing-room and the banquet-hall/’ 

“And you came away then?” questioned a lis- 
tener. 

“ Nay, nay! Finest of all — and this I saw my- 
self — was the last act,” laughed the young man, 
setting down his mugs and nursing his knee. 
“ The beautiful fury had a pipe of Madeira as old as 
she, a noble wine which her father, Sir Hector, had 
carried round the East India voyage in his own 
ship, and laid down to ripen under the cypress 
shingles of the great garret when she was born, 
that it might be broached on her wedding-day. 

“ Thi s good wine — the thought of it makes my 
mouth to water — was all in flagons, and set forth 
upon a table at the back of the great hall. They 
say that her uncle — or perhaps it was the butler 
— made some mention of the fact that it was her 
wedding wine, and should be re-bottled to wait 
for that occasion. At any rate, out into the hall 
comes she flying, catches up a bottle of it, whirls 
it about her head and sent it spinning down through 
the brave ranks of the flagons, that the glass crashed 
and splintered, and the good red wine went spurting 
and spouting. The vixen made such a good shot 
that they swear no one flask was left unbroken.” 

“ Come, now,” interrupted Dad Buckaloo, sitting 
up with a sort of groan, “you are reporting vil- 
lainies indeed. I have borne the relation of my 


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39 

lady’s other pranks, and even thought they showed 
her a lass of spirit. But that last was the doing 
of a hussy. To broach a man’s head and spill his 
blood, may be a worthy act; but to broach good 
wine like that, and spill it upon the unthankful 
earth, is a fiend’s trick. I would I had been there 
to catch some of it in my mouth — ” 

“ Which is ever open,” interrupted Lit, pushing 
her father’s great shoulder, and whispering to him. 

“ Poor old Ringlets — ” began some one, when 
the young man on the bar interrupted. 

“ O, yes, Sir Paris — Sir Ringlets — my fat 
fiddler told me later (when I had resurrected him 
with good ale) that Sir Paris would, past doubt, 
take to his bed. They say that if one of the house- 
hold break a leg, Sir Paris is for bed forthwith; 
that when any member of the family suffers illness, 
or anybody whatever hath griefs, Sir Paris wends 
incontinent to bed. There is no claim that he is 
ill. ’Tis his way of meeting adversity — and not 
so bad a way, neither. I wonder what the bride- 
groom thinks by now of whether or no he hath 
made a good escape that the young termagant would 
not have him.” 

Lit had come out of the corner and its shadows, 
and placed herself squarely before the young man, 
her head thrown back defiantly ; and now she cried 
to him: 

“ Do you not know, sir, or do you only feign 
not to know, that Mistress Diana Chaters was most 
cruelly jilted by Archibald Cameron? ” ^ 

“ Was — what?” demanded the tipsy young 
man, setting down an ale mug rather suddenly. 


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40 


“ They tell me she slapped his face and sent him 
packing — or did I misunderstand what they said ? ” 

“ You sure understood not at all what they said,” 
Lit echoed, bitterly, “or you so pretend. Archie 
Cameron, the hound, won this sweet young lady’s 
affections, promised her marriage, and when, as 
you see, she had made a great feast and parade of 
the wedding, he staid away from the church and 
sent her word that he did not want her.” 

“Is this so?” cried the young man, springing 
down from the bar, and looking upon the faces 
about her for confirmation. “ Why, this is not the 
story I was told.” 

“Except for some heat in the telling,” sneered 
Tillsford, “ ’tis exact enough. Archie Cameron 
jilted the jade who had jilted his betters.” 

“ And there was no man kin to her to debate that 
question with him ? ” inquired the newcomer. 
“ Why, she is a most beautiful young woman, and 
of high birth. Was there no friend, even, to draw 
a sword for her? ” 

Lit stepped closer to the young man. “There 
was not one friend to speak a word for her in the 
church this morning,” she cried, in her low, rich, 
thrilling contralto. “ I put her poor head on my 
breast — I, a stranger — and between carried and 
led her to her coach.” 

The young man looked with more attention at 
Lit’s flushed, tremulous, earnest face. 


“It was well done, young mistress” 

t( T ft ' Q ’ 


he said. 


“You men make a great talk of it that she 
behaved wildly and savagely,” Lit interrupted, 
with vehemence. “ Is’t strange, think you, a head so 


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4i 

proud, and so shamed, should be crazed, too? Tis 
a sight more than bottles o’ East India would ha’ 
been smashed, had / been served as she was — 
poor maid — poor young lady ! ” 

“ Indeed, mistress, you shall pardon me,” the 
young man persisted ; “ I was misinformed. I had 
not brought here my foolish tale so gaily had I 
known the truth of this matter.” 

“ I warrant you would not,” returned Lit, in a 
low tone and with an approving glance. 

“ And yet, ’twas a brave tale, and no doubt true 
every word,” suggested Tillsford, laughing. “We 
are for the club, Major Fallowfield; if they have 
not heard the recital of that home-coming, they will 
thank us for it.” 

The young man who had told the story, and who 
seemed now greatly sobered by the outcome of it, 
approached the two gentlemen. “ I beg you will 
not report the foolish things I said,” he began. 
“ They were mostly lies, and told in an unworthy 
spirit.” 

“ As you please, sir,” returned Fallowfield, 
smoothly, and Tillsford added, “The gentleman 
has a tender conscience. But ’twill take more than 
one scrupulous man to keep all Charles Town from 
humming with this tale to-night.” 

Drinking a modest mug of ale, and eating a 
lunch of bread and cheese at a little table removed 
from the others, there was a lean, shabby fellow, 
with an alert, ugly face, and the air of a journey- 
man in one of the more skilled trades. He was, in 
fact, a printer, employed on the Charles Town 
Gazette. 

He had listened to the conversation thus far with 


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42 

the know-it-all expression of a tap-room wiseacre; 
and now, as there came a little pause after Fallow- 
field’s remark, his thin, nasal voice cut in with, 
“ You’re all mistaken ; not one of you has touched 
the core of the matter yet. Archie had wedded the 
lady with no pother, had she been other than she is.” 

A roar of laughter here interrupted him. “ Why, 
so we said,” sneered Tillsford, and Dad Buckaloo 
boomed after him with, “ That might be said of 
any trade or marriage which miscarries.” 

The printer remained unruffled. “ You go off 
at the half-cock,” he observed. “ I do not mean 
the thing which you have said, that he was afraid 
of her temper.” 

“ Perchance of her money? ” suggested Tillsford. 

“ Why, as to that,” imperturbably, “ ’twas neither 
here nor there with Archie Cameron. He hath 
money in his pocket, and knows where to get more.” 

There came a low-toned murmur of dissatisfac- 
tion, and a man leaning upon the bar muttered, 
“ No fellow can walk the streets of Charles Town, 
with money in’s pocket, but what there are hintings 
that he gets it unfairly from the high seas.” 

“ I said not so,” returned the printer, “ but I do 
say to you that what Archie Cameron feared in the 
Honourable Diana Chaters was not her temper, but 
her wits. The Chaters family have ruled wherever 
they have set foot, and by G — , 


"‘They’ve got the brains 
To back their claims.’ 


“ The young mistress is a chip of the old block ; 
and Cameron knew well enough that she would see 


RETURN 


43 

through him and read the seamy side of his affairs 
in no time. A fellow with matters to keep to 
himself doth not want a wife like Mistress Diana 
Chaters. So much is certain.” 

“ What has Archie Cameron to hide from the 
public ? ” a sailorly appearing man demanded, in 
deep disgust. “What would you be hinting at? 
This city of Charles Town is the most infernal 
scandalous hole a man ever set his foot in. Let 
him dare get up so high as to> become a mark for 
envy, and he must beware that he be able to tell which 
grandam left him every guinea he spends, or some 
man whispers ‘ piracy/ so sure as I’m alive.” And 
he swore roundly. 

The printer turned his eyes upon this new cham- 
pion, “Did I say piracy, ye gowk? ’Twas you 
named the word, not I. Let Archibald Cameron 
tell, if he chooses, what ’tis that takes him on 
voyagings in a periagua out beyond the bar with 
two Indians for crew ! 

“Ah, fishing, is’t?” as the other made some 
muttered reply. “Well, then, that’s well, indeed. 
’Tis profitable sport — this fishing. He baits his 
hook with information, and brings up gold fish. 

“ But the Lord knows,” rising, shaking the 
crumbs from his garments and preparing to depart, 
“ that I am the last man to hint at piracy or smug- 
gling, or even a bit of decent privateering. I hint 
at nothing. We men who mould the world’s opinion 
through the journals must e’en be careful what we 
say.” And he strutted out with a frowning brow 
and an air of suppressed information and porten- 
tous wisdom. 

“ Aye,” cried an old man, crouched over the fire, 


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44 

“ now hint, somebody, that the Spaniards have sent 
Archie Cameron up here to raise the negroes ; that 
is the next thing coming.” 

“ We’ll not hint it,” said one of the crowd about 
the bar, bluntly, “ we’ll say it when we choose, old 
man. ’Tis no jest to' have Spain sending up her 
sneaking spies to raise our slaves against us.” 

Dad Buckaloo turned with some interest to the 
sailor-man who had first spoken. “ What is’t about 
Cameron? What hath he to do with any of this? 
Does any claim that the man is concerned with slave 
insurrections? They but accuse him of smuggling, 
or such, should you not say ? ” he asked. 

“ It’s naught,” answered the sailor, sulkily, bury- 
ing his face in his quartern mug and refusing fur- 
ther reply. 

“ Why, the remarks get about,” put in Tillsford, 
who appeared a man impartially pleased to give a 
thrust at friend or foe when occasion served, “ the 
reports get about because certain ships, of which 
Archibald Cameron knew most, have come to 
Charles Town after suffering greatly from attacks 
of Spanish privateers, and that, within such waters 
as he might have commanded with this information 
of which our printer friend makes mention.” 

“ The Spaniards ! ” put in old Sparling from his 
corner ; “ ’tis not conceivable that the man is in 
league with the Spaniards.” 

“ O, no,” laughed Tillsford, “ not conceivable; 
’tis merely believed by some people. And here’s 
a thing: The gentleman brought to Charles Town 
letters from old Farfrae MacBain, whom he had 
some concern with in Glasgow. And look you, 


RETURN 


45 

MacBain’s ships have suffered more bitterly than 
the ships of any other merchant or owner. His 
friend, indeed! God save us from such friends, 
say I.” And Tillsford and Fallowfield left the 
inn together. 


CHAPTER III. 


IN THE DUST 

“ Go, Betty, shut the bedroom door — 

The curtain shed. 

And, Betty, say I’m weary 
— Betty — say I’m dead ! ” 

L IT, standing back in the shadow, glanced 
quietly from one to another of the room’s 
occupants; then, pulling her hood about her 
face, withdrew unobserved and stepped from the 
inn doorway, leaving the men behind her carousing, 
drinking, and still talking of poor Diana Chaters 
and her public jilting. Evening was closing in. 
On the corner the girl stopped and asked a negro 
vender of shrimps for directions to the Chaters 
mansion. Realising from the woman’s description 
that she had seen the house that morning, she found 
it without further delay or trouble, raised and let 
fall the knocker on the great arched and pillared 
doorway, and was answered by a negro in livery. 

“ I want to see Mistress Chaters,” she told him. 
The negro shook his head. “ Mistress Chaters 
don’t see nobody,” he announced, positively and 
finally. 

“ O, yes, she’ll see me,” urged Lit. “ I’ve a 
thing to give her.” 


4 6 


RETURN 


47 

This seemed to arouse some interest. She was 
admitted to the vestibule, and the man hurried away 
to find and bring back with him a tall old negress in a 
great white turban, whom he addressed as “ Ma’am 
Daphne.” 

“ What you got for my lady ? ” Daphne inquired, 
severely. 

“ I’ve that which she’ll want to see,” returned 
Lit, promptly. 

“You come from Captain Cameron?” was the 
next inquiry, made in a low voice, and after a 
furtive backward glance. 

“ No,” began Lit, and then found that it had 
been a mistake; for the negress instantly refused 
any sight of her lady, insisting that Mistress 
Chaters was asleep and could not be disturbed. 

Lit finally vouchsafed, by way of retrieving her 
error, “ ’Tis somewhat concerning the — the — 
what happened at the church to-day, and I must see 
her within the hour to tell it her. Do you but point 
out her room to me; I will take the risk and go 
in.” 

The woman’s glance turned involuntarily toward 
the broad stairway. Lit followed its hint, and 
sprang lightly up, the negress at her heels, pro- 
testing and remonstrating. Above stairs, she found 
herself in a wide hallway, with cushioned seats in 
its recesses, a great oriental rug on its floor, and 
massive jars of oriental china sitting about, as one 
might often see them at that time in the homes of 
sea-captains of means. Sir Hector Chaters — father 
of Diana and elder brother of that doughty gentle- 
man, the present baronet, Sir Paris — had been a 
brilliant naval commander; and it was his boast 


RETURN 


48 

that he had sailed his ship in every water of the 
globe, and brought home something from each 
coast he touched. 

By instinct, Lit tried the first door she came to. 
It was locked, and there was no answer to her 
tapping. 

“ Y’ see, now,” breathed the negress over her 
shoulder, “ you can’t git in no mo’ dan nobody 
else.” Ma’am Daphne had come to feel that it 
might be advisable that the silence behind that door 
should be broken. “ Mus’ I call my lord ? ” she 
asked, anxiously. 

“ The old gentleman ? ” exclaimed Lit. “ Lord, 
no! None would ever open a door because he asked 
’em.” And here she rapped upon the panels and 
called, “ Mistress Chaters, Mistress Chaters ! I’ve 
a message for you. ’Tis me, Lit Buckaloo, the 
maid who helped you to your carriage this morn- 
ing.” 

There was a long silence, then a slight rustling, 
then the bolt shot back. Lit entered briskly. For 
a moment she thought the room empty ; there was 
no candle lighted, and the evening shades made it 
SO' dusky that the black-robed figure crouched in a 
chair by the gaping fireplace might well have passed 
for one of the shadows. 

Slightly taken aback at meeting no challenge, no 
greeting, no address of any sort, Lit fumbled in her 
bosom, brought out the brooch, and presented it. 
Diana did not raise her head, but when the orna- 
ment came within the range of her down-bent vision, 
reached out a nerveless hand and took it, while a 
voice dull, toneless, emptied, a voice which it seemed 


return 


49 

to Lit might have proceeded from any inanimate 
object in -the room, murmured : 

“ O, thank you. Did I drop it? I remember, 
I wore it — this morning.” And at mention of 
that morning, its agonies seemed to come back upon 
Diana, and a long shudder shook her from head to 
foot. 

Lit dropped on her knees beside the girl. “ Lord 
a-mighty ! ” clasping the chair arms and looking 
up into the other’s face, “what’s all this about? 
What behaviour is this ? ” 

Diana made a gesture of repulsion, as though 
she would have pushed the other away. “ I thank 
you for what you did this morning,” she uttered, 
finally, “ and I thank you for bringing back my 
pin. I will give you — some money — ” 

“ That you won’t,” retorted Lit, flushing a little. 
“ I didn’t come here for your money, Mistress 
Chaters.” 

Something in the tone roused Diana. “ Why 
did you come here ? ” she demanded, rising and 
pushing past the kneeling girl. “ Why did you 
come here — and force your way in — and look at 
me, when — when I cannot bear to be looked at ? 
I will not be looked at.” She turned on Lit fiercely. 
“ Is it that you want to go back and tell tales of 
how I am bearing it ? — how I acted ? — whether 
I was pale or no ? — whether I was sick abed ? ” 
With an accuracy purely subjective, Lit gauged 
the nature she sought to lead. Rising and putting 
her hands truculently upon her hips, “ Well,” she 
said, “ and now suppose I did ? Suppose I had 
about a dozen dear gossips waiting to hear how 
Lady Diana Chaters took Archie Cameron’s jilting? 


RETURN 


50 

Shouldn’t I have a fine tale to tell them ? That she 
put on widow’s weeds,” catching at the filmy black 
dress, “ that she locked herself in her bed-chamber, 
and was ashamed to show her face to any 
visitor — ” 

“Hush!” interrupted Diana, imperiously. “How 
dare you? ” 

“Wouldn’t it be true?” went on Lit, sturdily. 
“ Have you eaten anything since morning? ” 

“ My negress told you that,” cried Diana, angrily. 
“ I’ll deal with her.” 

“ No, she told me nothing,” Lit contradicted. 
“ Couldn’t I look at your pinched, perished face, 
and see that no bite had passed your lips this day? 
See how you play the fool, mistress, by your leave, 
and if you’ll excuse the word. Look and see how 
you play into that man’s hands. He has jilted you 
and made little of you; so now, you’ll scorn your- 
self ; you’ll help him. When he puts a shame upon 
you, you’ll wear it like a shame. Why, Lord be 
good to us ! You should have on your gayest dress, 
and go forth among your friends, and hold your 
head up, like the lady and the beauty that you are.” 

“Friends!” cried Diana, sinking down into her 
chair once more. “ I have none. You are the one 
woman who has shown kindness since this misfor- 
tune came upon me.” 

“ Nay, I’ll not believe it,” remonstrated Lit, cheer- 
ily. “ They cannot be all fiends, the people of this 
town. And they tell me you have lived among them 
since you were a little child. Sure, there must be 
some here that love you, if only for your wit and 
beauty.” 

“No, there are none!” cried Diana, with a 


RETURN 


5i 

hunted, desperate look. “ I cannot face them — 
I can never face them. When I think of things I 
have said and done — and then to come to this! 
I will sit here in this room till the thing is forgotten 
— I will cut my throat — ” 

She was walking up and down now, wringing 
her hands. “ Why was I born? ” she groaned, “ or 
why did I not die when my father did ? None would 
have dared scorn me so, while he lived.” 

The selfishness which had gained no friends, the 
false and overblown pride which lay bleeding 
under this cruel indignity, were plain to the visitor. 
The whole situation was to her a very open book. 
But Lit, loving and faulty, generally much self- 
condemned, was not wont to reprove others; and 
had she been, this, to* her thinking, was not the time 
to preach to Diana Chaters. She sat, or half-kneeled 
upon the hearthstone, regarding the tall, stately 
young figure that passed backward and forward 
through the long, high-ceiled, sedate apartment, the 
slender, aristocratic hands, now wrung together, 
now tossed wildly above the shamed head; while 
Diana bewailed her fate in such broken words as 
came to her, and swore that if she were a man she 
would follow Archie Cameron across the world till 
she had wiped out the insult in his blood — that if 
there was a man kin to her who had the spirit of 
a man in himi, Archie Cameron should not live a 
week — and thus on and on and on. 

When finally there came a lull, through very 
weariness, in this tide of reproach and lamentation, 
Lit remarked, out of the fulness of her wisdom, 
“ I’m hungry.” 

“ Ma’am Daphne shall feed you,” answered 


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52 

Diana, indifferently. “ Go down to< her. Oh, to 
think that anybody could eat, now ! ” 

“ No,” returned Lit, decidedly, “ I shall not go 
down to Ma’am Daphne; I want something to eat 
— and drink — brought up here. I would talk to 
you about what you’ve just been saying. You spoke 
something of having a man to fight your battles — 
’tis easy done, you know, when a maid is as fair 
and as great a lady as you are.” 

Diana looked with drawn brow and half-protest- 
ing air at this girl who did not know how to be 
abashed; but Lit went calmly to the door, called 
loudly to the frightened Daphne, who was no fur- 
ther away than the keyhole, and ordered, “Wine 
and meat for both of us — and be quick about it! ” 
When the little supper which poor, heart-sore 
Daphne had been grieving over for hours was 
spread, Lit drew two chairs beside it and coaxed 
Diana to sit in one of them. 

“ I never could eat alone,” she protested, “ nor 
drink neither, for that matter. Never mind if you 
don’t take anything, do just sit there,” and she 
whispered Daphne hastily to lay a fire on the deso- 
late hearthstone for sake of cheer. 

The negress, taking her cue from these directions, 
lit the candles in the silver sconces, and soon the 
room was glowing with the leaping, broken bright- 
ness of flames from the pine knots, and the clearer, 
steadier radiance of the candles. 

“ There! ’Tis as the bower of a beautiful young 
lady should be, isn’t it?” inquired Lit, innocently, 
as she turned to her companion while Ma’am 
Daphne was closing the door. “ Now, if you’ll 
but eat a bite of this venison, and drink a sup o’ 


RETURN 


53 

wine, ’twill do you a mort o’ good. Don’t drink 
the wine first, on an empty stomach that way, or 
you’ll be seeing double.” 

Diana turned her face aside, with a gesture of 
disrelish. “ I know not why I allow you to — 
to — ” she faltered. “ I wish you would go away. 
I don’t know you,” but she made no movement to 
leave the table, nor to alter any of the girl’s arrange- 
ments. 

The red mantled richly in Lit’s dark cheek. She 
was of as high a mettle, as independent a spirit, as 
Diana herself. Had she given her quick temper 
a moment’s way, she had left the lady to her own 
desperate devices. It was love that held her here 
— a most real affection — suddenly conceived, and 
continually added to and confirmed by its object’s 
helplessness and pathetic need of counsel and protec- 
tion. 

“ What news do you reckon Archie Cameron 
would like to hear from you ? ” she demanded, 
roughly. Diana flinched, and turned away with a 
sort of groan. 

“ Just the very news I could tell him,” went on 
Lit, remorselessly. “ Now what is the news that 
would make him sing small, if you could send it 
him? ” 

“ A sword through his heart ! That is the only 
message I would send him,” returned Diana, fiercely. 
“ A sword through his coward heart ; that is what 
he deserves ! ” 

“ Well, you can’t do that so easy,” commented 
Lit, philosophically. “ Next best thing is to make 
him look as much like a fool as you can. Send him 
word that you’re married.” 


RETURN 


54 

“ Married ! ” breathed Diana, turning to face her 
tormentor. “ Who would have me now ? Oh ! I 
numbered my lovers by the score before this thing 
chanced; and I flouted them all. Would they not 
be glad of a chance to pay me back in kind? Dare 
I show one of them countenance? ” 

Lit gazed at her admiringly. “ Tis likely,” she 
said, “ that any of ’em would be glad to come back. 
But you know best what you want to do. If you 
can’t stay here and marry and hold up your head, 
why not try a new place ? ” 

“A new place?” echoed Diana. Then, leaning 
back and striking the board with her clenched fin- 
gers, “No!” she stormed, “ I will not go back to 
England, and have this story follow me there ! ” 

“ Who spoke of England ? ” answered Lit. “ I 
came up here by way of Savannah. ’Tis a new 
country, but most beautiful. And down there, be 
English and Scots and French and Dutchmen, 
that speak a most ungodly tongue — besides all 
manner of Indians — and all of them so put about 
in these war times that none will stop to question 
who ye are or whence ye come. Drink a glass of 
wine now, like a good soul, and think it over.” 

So deep was Diana in the contemplation of these 
plans, the first coherent thought which she had 
given to the new condition of her affairs, that she 
allowed Lit to urge upon her a small sweet biscuit 
and a half glass of Madeira; but at the meat she 
rebelled. 

“ I am not hungry,” she protested. “ Let me 
think. Savannah, said you ? Why, that is the new 
province, is it not — is that not it? Who is the 
man in charge — the head man? James Ogle- 


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55 

thorpe ! ” She sprang up and struck her hands 
together. “ That is it ! ” she cried, “ I still have 
a — He was my father’s friend, and he will be 
mine. I’ll sell this house and my servants — ” 

“ But take your horses with you,” put in Lit. 
“ And why do you sell your servants ? ” 

“ That they shall not be prating of this thing 
and blabbing of it,” answered Diana, bitterly. 

“ No,” remonstrated Lit, “ the old woman who 
let me in would never do that. You must trust 
people,” she urged, with kindly insistence, “ if you 
expect to get any good out of ’em; that I know. 
Take the old woman with you; and mind, your 
horses. We have too few good horses down that 
way, except the wild ones that no man can catch 
or tame; and yours are fine. I marked them when 
your coach drove up this morning.” 

Diana’s manner had now become as feverishly 
alert as it had before been coldly relaxed. “ Have 
you had enough supper ? ” she demanded. “ I would 
have you see my uncle.” 

Poor Lit, who had been making laborious pre- 
tence of eating something — no small undertaking 
upon the heels of her supper at the inn — gladly 
welcomed the sending away of the tray; but she 
forced Diana to purchase it by eating a morsel 
more of food and drinking a few more sips of 
wine. That done, Sir Paris was summoned. He 
came — from his bed, they were informed — 
wrapped in a long silken gown, his face washed 
clean of rouge, and in his own hair instead of a 
wig, which peculiarity won him his sobriquet. Seen 
thus, he looked a lean and shattered old man 
(though his years were indeed but barely fifty-six) 


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56 

with a deprecating manner, a halting step, and an 
eye of purpose so feeble as to be almost furtive. 
In one arm he carried a small King Charles spaniel, 
which had a grotesque resemblance to himself, with 
its drooping, curled ears and its aristocratic, bored, 
plaintive little countenance. 

“ I trust,” he lisped, “ that Belinda will not be 
considered an intrusion. The poor soul was so — ” 

“ Uncle,” interrupted Diana, imperiously, “ I am 
going to Savannah to live.” 

“ Hold, Diana,” quavered her uncle, raising a 
tremulous, remonstrant hand ; “ let me sit before 
you begin on one of your tirades.” 

Lit obligingly placed a chair, and Sir Paris sank 
into it, arranged Belinda upon his shaking knees, 
and fanned himself with his handkerchief. 

“ Why have you a fire on such an evening as 
this ? ” he chafed, between timid and irritable, “ it 
smothers one. My good wench,” to Lit, “ would 
you mind bringing my smelling-bottle from the 
next room? Or no, I left it in my bedroom. Ring 
the bell for Junius. He will get it, my child; I 
need not trouble you.” 

m Neither Diana nor Lit attended tz these remarks. 
“ Uncle,” repeated his niece, “ I am quitting Charles 
Town. I shall leave Matthew Zubley to sell this 
house — to sell everything I possess in this province. 
And I am going to Savannah.” 

“ To Savannah ! ” echoed her uncle. “ Why, that 
is where Jamie Oglethorpe is trying to build a 
town. He is a good fellow; perhaps he will attend 
to us. You might go down there for the winter, 
later, when you can make your arrangements at 
leisure. 


RETURN 


57 

“ I am going to-morrow,” cut in Diana, savagely. 

“ You are going — ” began her uncle, and then 
paused helplessly. 

“I am going to-morrow. As for all the unfin- 
ished business that I must leave, my steward can 
attend to it. I prefer that you should accompany 
me when I go.” 

“ But the curiosities? The house plenishings? 
Your father’s rich collections ? ” recited her uncle, 
querulously ; “ what will you do with them ? ” 

“ Burn them — throw them into the sea — do 
whatever I choose with them. Are they not mine? ” 
ejaculated Diana, with fierce energy. 

“ My dear child,” remonstrated Sir Paris, “ why 
put it so coarsely? ’Tis certain that everything in 
this house is yours. It is also certain that all the 
members of your household can have no doubt 
upon the subject. They have heard you mention 
the fact daily — or perhaps thrice daily — for many 
years. But I do not wish to> see you — ” 

Diana’s colour had risen. She was about to burst 
forth with some retort. But Lit, reading the signs 
of a family quarrel, intervened courageously with, 
“ Old gentleman, it seems to me that this is not the 
time to bring her to book for past faults. If she 
is spoiled, maybe you had a good hand in the spoil- 
ing. She feels, I take it, as though her uncle might 
have protected her from what happened to-day. 
And as you did it not, why, best keep silent about 
her shortcomings, and do< now what she asks of 
you, without question. Do you think, yourself, 
she’s like to settle down to a happy life, here in — ” 

“ Well, well, good wench,” hastily interposed Sir 


58 RETURN 

Paris, “ what is to be done, then ? There is no 
ship — ” 

“ Aye, it chances that you may go to-morrow, 
if you can make ready in time, and do not take too 
much luggage; for the Company’s sloop, Good 
Report, is up here, and goes back with passengers 
and freight to-morrow. ’Tis General Oglethorpe’s 
own sloop of war; but as you are friends of his, 
you can get a passage in it fast enough. I go back 
in this boat, and my father. Do not fail to have 
your horses sent,” turning to Diana very earnestly. 
“ I love a good horse.” 

At the words, “ General Oglethorpe’s sloop of 
war,” Sir Paris had slightly started. Now he cried 
out, “ Heavens, Diana ! we can’t go to this place the 
maid talks of. What was I thinking about not to 
remember, that Jamie Oglethorpe’s in a peck of 
trouble with the rascally, negro-seducing dons at 
Augustine. Why, they even talk of war.” 

“ Yes,” assented Lit, “ they do so talk. We 
brought the general’s letter to your lieutenant- 
governor. But, old gentleman, that’s just the place 
for you — or for the maid. As for danger, there’s 
no more of it in. Savannah than in Charles Town. 
If once the Spanish overbear the general’s defences 
at St. Simons, and destroy Savannah and the 
Georgia settlements, they will sweep the coast like 
a tidal wave. ’Tis well known this is what they 
intend. And the bustle about war takes all the peo- 
ple’s thoughts off everybody and everything else.” 

“Ha! so it would!” cried Diana, with eager- 
ness, “ while here,” bitterly, “today — this even- 
ing— in all Charles Town there will be nothing* 
else talked of. Around the supper-tables — they 


return 


59 

used to sit there staring and whispering of my 
beauty, my wealth, my daring ways ; admiring me, 
wondering at me, envying me. Now they forget 
their awe, and dare lift their heads to jibe and jeer 

clt 

“ My dear niece — ” broke in Sir Paris, timidly ; 
but she fairly blew him off the scene with the rush 
and fury of her passion. “ Don’t tell me — the 
idle, envious, malicious fools! Ah — ah — ah! 
For weeks and weeks, for a year, no two cap 
borders will come close together, without my name 
and a sneer being whispered between them. And 
worse — oh, worst of all ! — the men — the men in 
every tap-room.” 

Lit looked at Diana, startled. 

“ Wherever there’s a man I’ve rejected, or even 
scanted to favour, — and God knows Charles Town’s 
full of them, — wherever there’s a sword and a pair 
of jack-boots, a curled wig and a cane, with a bottle 
between; or even a blouse and a smock-frock, with 
a couple of mugs of ale upon the table, my name 
will be bandied, the jest of every drunken loafer 
who chooses to air his wit at the expense of one 
whom he could never behold save to admire ! ” 

Lit’s great, deer-like eyes rounded upon Diana 
in amazement, almost in terror, as she heard her 
describe with such truth the scene she herself had 
witnessed at the Boar’s Head within the hour. It 
was as though the frenzy of Diana’s emotion had 
wrought her to clairvoyance. 

“ ’Tis envy because I was set up SO' high. ’Tis the 
delight of crawling souls to see that which is above 
them brought low, that which is beautiful and bright 
befouled with slime and mud. I cannot bear it, 


6o 


RETURN 


I will not, I will be rid of it! If I stop here, I 
shall die ! oh, I shall die, I shall die ! ” 

Later, when Sir Paris had assured her that she 
need not remain in Charles Town an hour beyond 
her own will, and they had come to the discussion 
of means and methods, “ Savannah,” murmured the 
baronet, meditatively, leaning his head back against 
the chair and closing his eyes. “ ’Tis near there, 
if I mistake not, ’tis somewhere off that coast, the 
island upon which the crudest and fairest of 
her sex has chosen to build her home; a second 
Calypso, mourning a second — and yet more un- 
worthy — Ulysses, in the person of my own mis- 
taken and ungrateful brother. So you are going 
to Hastie for — ” 

“ Cousin Hastie ! ” interrupted Diana, “ Why, so 
’tis. I had not thought of Cousin Hastie. I wonder 
now — ” and she drew her brows and brooded upon 
the matter. 

“ I allude,” said Sir Paris, in a leisurely and 
grandiose fashion, “to Haste-thee Wynnewoode, 
that lady of the marble heart, who has forsworn 
speech because a man (your Uncle Ulysses, never 
worthy of such charms) saw fit to quarrel with and 
part from her in anger. Now I, had she listened to 
my suit, would have regarded those things which 
he found unbearable as but the expressions of a 
high spirit. And yet,” and the old gentleman took 
his small, delicate hankerchief gingerly from under 
the objecting Belinda, who had carefully arranged 
herself upon it, wiped his lips, dusted his lace ruffles, 
and looked at the two girls inquiringly, before he 
concluded, “ and yet, she scorns my suit.” 

So little were his remarks regarded that Diana 


return 


6 1 

was once more deep in conversation with Lit. “ Do 
you know of the Isle of Hope, and the plantations 
upon it? ” she demanded. “ One is Colonel Jones’s, 
a very fine place, Wormsloe. The other is my 
cousin Haste-thee Wynnewoode’s. She calls it 
Wynnewoode, and ’tis, they say, as beautiful — 
but not so extensive.” 

“ O yes, I know the place,” Lit answered. “ It 
is owned and managed by a woman, and she raises 
main fine horses. My father has been there, but 
I have not. ’Tis inland from Tybee.” 

“ I think I shall go there,” Diana concluded, 
“ if ” — with some hesitation, and a sort of drop — 
“ if she will have me.” 

“ Ah, cruel, cruel Hastie,” chimed in Sir Paris’s 
unnoted antistrophe, “ she would not have me, 
though I besought her many times. Is that all, 
Diana?” 

“ 'Tis all,” returned his niece, “ except that I 
have changed my plans somewhat. I shall go to 
Savannah, and from there send word to Cousin 
Hastie. If she will admit us, her plantation would 
make a refuge for me until a house can be bought 
and my affairs placed in the new town.” 

“ Well, then, if that be all, my dear, Belinda and 
I will take ourselves away. We are ready to be 
called upon if needed, but we do not wish to intrude. 
Discharge your mind of care about the gardens. 
I will see that all desirable seeds go with us, and 
that Sogo prepares such choice plants as can be 
lifted at this season. I give you good night, my 
niece — good night, young woman.” 

As he passed to his own room's, he said sighingly 
to Belinda, “ ’Tis sure a pity to forsake this sweet 


62 


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spot — the home poor Hector builded — when its 
graperies are at such perfection, its limes and figs 
and orange-trees beyond aught I have ever seen. 
To go to a new, barren land, a place of poor debtors ; 
no slaves, no rum ! Truly, it sounds little hopeful.” 
And he sighed again, deeply. 

Later, in his room, when his man Junius had 
made him ready and put him to bed, spread the 
dainty coverlet over Belinda’s slumbers, and retired, 
Sir Paris, lying on the great pillared, canopied 
couch, drew the night-lamp toward him, lit his 
candle at it, and prepared to read. “ Livy is won- 
drous soothing to a perturbed mind,” he said. “ And 
so, I am to' follow Hastie — I, who was never bold 
enough suitor to brave the least drawing of her 
brows — ’tis little I thought to do this. And poor 
Hector’s house sold to strangers, because a wilful 
maid comes to shipwreck in her ill-conceived love- 
affairs ! Ah, poor creatures of Chance that we are ! 
Spun helpless between the thumb and finger of Fate, 
coming up heads or tails, with no choosing of our 
own.” 

And so he fell asleep, while in the room he had 
left a girl lay upon her bed, wakeful, dry-eyed, 
desperate, or walked the long apartment, through 
black shadow and patches of broken moonlight, 
always planning, planning, planning the myriad 
trivial details of her removal; the vengeance of 
which she would sometime have her fill ; the letters 
she would write to England, to her kin there, to 
contradict other letters which she guessed were 
even now being penned, and from thought of which 
she shuddered away, sick at heart. 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE HEJIRA 


“ O gallant captain, show some pity 
To a lady in distress; 

Leave pie not within the city, 

For to die in heaviness.” 

B UT Diana Chaters did not leave Charles Town 
on the day following her humiliation, as she 
had planned to do. She rose that morning, 
like the good woman of Scripture, “ while it was 
yet dark/’ gathered her household together and set 
each one a task toward the uprooting of a home 
which had been building for nearly a quarter of a 
century. 

The girl was possessed of fine executive ability, 
a genius for affairs, and the instinct of command; 
indeed, it was these unused, fermenting powers of 
hers which led to so much that was unworthy of 
her womanhood. But even she, born leader and 
chieftainess that she was, could not accomplish the 
impossible. 

By noon, her most precious possessions were 
strewn over the floors, she had personally chastised 
one or two servants, and harangued and rebuked 
all the others till they were in a nervous tremor, 
and reduced to the point of uselessness through sheer 


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64 

dread of her tongue. Poor Sir Paris, who for a 
time — taking a leaf out of her own book — shut 
himself up in his room and refused to be drawn 
by any lure, finally came out and, making a feeble 
stand upon some point which he conceived personally 
to concern him, thereby fell into the most unseemly 
wrangle with his niece. 

In the midst of this coil arrived Lit, with news 
that the sloop could not sail that day, as the mill- 
wright and cooper who had been sent from England 
to Oglethorpe’s Georgia settlement, and whom the 
sloop had specially come up to fetch, were nowhere 
to be found. 

“ They go at dawn to-morrow,” Lit announced, 
“ whether these men be forthcoming or no.” 

“ At dawn to-morrow ! ” echoed Sir Paris, with 
a sigh of relief. “ We may easily be ready by that 
time.” 

“ I am ready this instant, sir ! ” cried Diana, with 
wrathful energy. “ I could walk out of this house 
and leave this petty trash upon its walls and floors 
to ruin, or to the flames, without a qualm.” But Lit 
observed it as a good sign that the young vixen 
turned and addressed herself with renewed industry 
to the matter of seeing her household gear properly 
packed and disposed. 

Down at the landing, a very wroth man, Captain 
Watcher Stirkey, walked backward and forward 
and cast angry glances up the main street which 
led from the shipping region into the walled town. 
Beside him in the harbour, the Prince of Wales rode 
at anchor, an English brig; and there had come 
across in her a certain mill, a millwright, and a 
cooper for the Georgia plantations. Captain Stir- 


return 


6 5 

key, who had been warned that these skilled mechan- 
ics were much desired in all the colonies, and might 
be debauched from him, had conscientiously lived up 
to his name of watcher; but, alas, the sloop Good 
Report met unfavourable winds coming up from 
Tybee, and she entered Charles Town harbour at 
the tail of the Prince of Wales. 

The brig was scarcely at anchor, and a boat or 
two passed between its deck and the landing, when 
Captain Stirkey was over the side demanding his 
millwright and cooper. They had gone ashore, he 
was suavely informed. It was like he would find 
them at the Sailor’s Rest. 

To the Sailor’s Rest he made what speed he could, 
and in the tap-room met old Dad Buckaloo, who had 
come up to Charles Town seeking indigo seed with 
which he was desirous of experimenting at his plan- 
tation down in the Creek country, for in all this 
region the wild indigo had been found growing pro- 
fusely. Old Dad had the name of being the sworn 
ally of the last person who talked to him, and old 
Dad asserted that the millwright and the cooper 
had not entered the Sailor’s Rest. 

“Yet there were sailors about, and many strangers 
and newcomers, and you might have missed them ? ” 
asked Captain Stirkey. 

And his boatswain, Silas Wragg, added, “ Were 
you a-lookin’ for them, Muster Buckaloo ? ” 

Of the long chase which followed; of the infor- 
mation which came to poor Captain Stirkey that his 
men had been decoyed away and made drunk; of 
the assistance which Lit Buckaloo gave him ; of the 
half-dozen times that he thought he had located the 
deserters and was disappointed ; — of this wild pro- 


66 


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cession of happenings it boots not to tell here. 
Suffice it to say that he was loading the useless mill 
upon his sloop in an extremely acrimonious frame 
of mind when Lit made her application that Diana 
Chaters’s household, and the chattels thereunto 
appertaining, be given passage to Savannah. 

Almost any one else the captain, at that especial 
juncture, would have answered with a surly denial. 
But Lit had earned her place in his good graces, 
and she proceeded to make her standing yet more 
secure by assuring him that amongst other pos- 
sessions which he should transport was the hand- 
somest team of English bay horses that she had seen 
for a year. 

“ I know not what other beasts they may have, 
but these horses will be a credit to the colony. I 
shall be proud to see them on the streets of Savan- 
nah.” 

And Captain Stirkey grumbled himself away to 
superintend the placing of some stores by his mixed 
outfit of negroes, Indians, and wharf loafers. 

Above the green waters of the harbour rose very 
slightly the irregular roofage of what had originally 
been the walled town, within which were the first 
houses built when defence from imminent Indian 
attacks made the wall, with its bastions and towers, 
necessary. But now in the peninsula the streets 
had stretched out, and more stately homes had been 
built for thirty years past, till the seaboard city 
was indeed an imposing sight. 

It obtained little favour, however, in Captain 
Stirkey’s eyes, who looked upon it but to curse it, 
and whose heart was scarcely softened when the 


RETURN 67 

great coach and the two English horses were brought 
aboard from one of the quays. 

Having prosecuted the search for his evasive 
mechanics during the night, the captain’s temper was 
not improved. He may be said to have been rather 
at his worst when, in the gray dawn of the following 
morning, Diana Chaters and her uncle reached the 
landing. The coach being gone, and Diana unwilling 
to call a public conveyance, they had come down 
afoot, a strange and pitiful small procession, through 
the growing, uncertain light; the tall girl leading 
with her uncle, behind her Ma’am Daphne and Juno 
bearing her most cherished personal belongings, Juno 
in proud charge of the jewel-case, and Daphne with 
a writing-desk and coffer which contained letters 
and papers of value. After them also, Chaka, the 
Indian coachman, with a great bale upon his shoul- 
der; Sogo, the African negro gardener; Sir Paris’s 
man Junius, who was the husband of Juno, Belinda 
in his arms, with Pompey the butler, and a dwarfish, 
ill-favoured mestizo woman, scullery-maid, com- 
monly called Chunkey, probably a free translation 
of her Indian name. 

When this caravan presented itself to the aston- 
ished eyes of the captain, he halted it. “ The Prince 
of Woles does not sail for two days,” he announced. 
“No doubt you are seeking passage in the Prince 
of Wales r 

“ No, sir,” returned Diana, firmly. “ If you be 
Captain Watcher Stirkey, and that,” pointing to 
the masts against the pallid sky, “ your sloop, Good 
Report, we are passengers for it, and are going down 
to Savannah with you.” 

The little huddled, dispirited group paused behind 


68 


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Diana, standing silent, or speaking in that relaxed, 
nerveless manner which evidences the depression of 
people dragged from their beds before their hour 
of rising. Diana herself felt the subduing power of 
the time and place. Only Captain Stirkey displayed 
vigour, and as he had been for one hour putting all 
his energy into anathematising the people of Charles 
Town, this sad little train was quite out of keeping 
with the temper of his thoughts. Preoccupied with 
the exasperation of his own affairs, the captain had 
not understood that passage for a lady was 
included in his promise to move the Chaters house- 
hold and goods — and a mincing fine lady of Charles 
Town at that. Now he drew back his head upon his 
thick shoulders, squared a heavy jaw, and glowered 
at her from under bushy gray brows. 

“ I think you are mistaken, mistress,” he said. 
“ You do not know the lack of accommodation upon 
my boat. I think you are going in the Prince of 
Wales. Why, what childish jolly is this?” he 
burst out, as she shook her head in negative. “ The 
brig sails but two days later; in it you can go in 
comfort — and be desired. Upon my poor sloop 
you are not wanted; and if there comes a capful 
of wind — as chanced on the voyage up — we will 
all be put about by your fine lady airs, your faintings 
and your fright, which will take the heart out of 
everybody. No ! I say I will not have it ! ” 

“ Yet there is a young woman who goes down 
with you, as I understand it,” began Diana, in angry 
remonstrance. 

“ O, a stout wench like old Dad Buckaloo’s 
daughter; that is another matter. But go you to 
Captain Pearcy, of the Prince of Wales . He hath 


return 


6 9 

not had his temper riddled by the piracies of the 
parti-coloured demons who pass for inhabitants of 
this town; and he ever loves to make his manners 
to a petticoat.” 

“ That I will not,” asserted Diana.. “ I go with 
you, and to-day, sir. Where is your boat? I do 
not sail in the Prince of Wales, to please you or any 
other man.” 

“ Well, come with him or not — as your pleasure 
is. With me you shall not come. Yon sloop hath 
not an inch more room than I have need of to curse 
withal, from here clean to Savannah.” 

“ To curse ! ” cried Diana, with a curious little 
bitter laugh breaking in on her rising belligerency. 
“ To curse, is it ? And you deny me passage because 
I would check your cursing of Charles Town ! Nay, 
sir, I would assist you to the best of my ability, and 
with a right good will.” 

In her morbid condition — a state of acute mono- 
mania — Diana took it for granted that Captain 
Stirkey knew of her, and of the humiliation she had 
suffered at St. Philip’s the day before. It was not 
conceivable to her mind that people in Charles Town 
spoke of much else. Now, the mad suspicion came 
to her that he desired to delay or prevent her depar- 
ture, that she might be held up for further ridicule. 

“ No doubt, sir,” she burst out, “ you think your- 
self a man, and very worthy — oh! no doubt you 
think well of yourself to abet those who — to abet 
those who would — ” 

“ I abet nobody ! ” roared the captain, in a sudden 
excess of exasperation. “ But I do rule my own 
deck ; and I say you shall not put foot upon it, who- 
ever you be,” 


RETURN 


7 ° 

The closing words suggested to> Diana that she 
had not yet been recognised. When he knew her he 
must know her plight, and it was not possible he 
would longer deny her. 

“ I am Diana Chaters,” she announced, with a 
sort of desperate humility. “ Now do you see that 
you must take me away from Charles Town — that 
I go, whether you will or no ? ” 

“ The aristocracy of this godless town is nothing 
to me,” retorted the captain. “ A pirate’s skulking- 
place it was, and still is. I know nothing of any 
Mistress Diana Chaters booked to come with me 
— I have ne’er heard the name. And you do not go 

mind that. Robbed — befooled — made a mock 
of — lam still captain here — and you do not go! ” 

Out of the muffling mist, quite at Diana’s shoulder, 
a big voice suddenly spoke in suave command. 

“ Mistress Chaters is of my party, sir. I think 
you must strain a point, and make room for her.” 

Diana looked, and saw in the obscurity a very tall, 
dark man whose face was strange to her, and upon 
whom the captain glared as though he had never 
seen him before, but to whom he answered civilly 
enough. 

“ Well, if she be of your party, Mr. Buccleugh, 
that makes a difference. Why was I not told of 
it? ” 

“The lady made her plans but suddenly,” re- 
turned the other. “ Allow me, madam,” and he 
reached a hand to help her into the boat which lay 
ready to convey himself and the captain to the 
sloop. 

Such was old Dad’s first meeting with Diana 
Chaters. What it was in her that appealed to him. 


RETURN 7 i 

what memories she brought back of bright, gay, 
high-born girls who were his cousins or the sisters 
of his mates, one can only guess. Whether her 
imperious beauty and unbridled temper sounded a 
kindred chord and made him desire to appear at 
his best before her, made him, pose once more as 
Alexander Buccleugh — whatever the cause, certain 
it is that old Dad Buckaloo turned to the proud 
young beauty a phase of his character which had 
been so long forgotten that it was made appear she 
struck out something new in him. 

When Lit, running down to the landing and hail- 
ing the yawl after it had left the shore, came aboard, 
panting, bringing with her at last the precious packet 
of indigo seed which had been the object of their 
journey, and which had been overlooked and left 
behind at the Boar’s Head, her father was nowhere 
to be seen. Later, when the sloop was approaching 
White Point, and Diana, the town once left indeed, 
had grown brave and was standing on deck watching 
it moodily as the rising sun struck athwart the 
wooded slopes beyond it, and the pleasant vistas of 
its vanishing streets, old Buckaloo came on deck, 
dressed like a gentleman in a suit of plum-coloured 
cloth, his great black mane neatly tied with a finger- 
wide black ribbon. Lit, standing beside Diana, who 
was questioning her of Stede Bonnet and his pirate 
crew that lay buried on the beach below high tide, 
(where the battery now stands,) looked around, 
failed to recognise the strange figure, then gasped 
and clutched at the nearest object for support. It 
was with difficulty that she managed to command 
herself sufficiently to say when old Dad approached : 

“ Father, this is Mistress Chaters, of whom I 


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7 2 

spoke to you ; Mistress, this is my father, who goes 
by the name of Buckaloo.” 

“ I am Alexander Buccleugh, at your service,” 
responded old Dad, bowing grandly. 

Diana was gazing at the line of white foam which 
covers the spot where the pirate graves were made. 
She brought her eyes away from it long enough 
to glance at the man, smile haughtily, and say, in 
a tone pleasanter than her look would have prom- 
ised : 

“ You have already been of service to me, Mr. 
Buccleugh, by your intercession with the raving 
lunatic we have for captain, and from your daughter 
I have received the only kindness any woman has 
shown me since — since — ” and she broke off and 
stared moodily once more at the vanishing city. 

As the sloop rounded White Point, Captain 
Stirkey, who had somewhat recovered from his 
spleen, and now showed a disposition to play the 
host to his unwelcome passenger, stretched a hand 
toward the line of combing breakers which indicates 
White Point at flood tide, and observed : 

Tis there that Stede Bonnet and his forty pirates 
all were buried in chains.” 

Yes, ’twas the entire crew,” commented Sir 
Paris. “ How very unpleasant — for them.” 

“ Nay, there was one of the fellows was not con- 
demned to death. Bonnet himself made one escape, 
but he was brought back ; and according to the tale 
that I have been told, all were hanged save that one.” 

“ And he,” broke in Buccleugh, “ what for a look- 
ing man would he have been, should you say? ” 

“ My acquaintance with pirates is limited, sir,” 


RETURN 73 

returned Captain Stirkey. “ The thing happened 
some eleven years ago.” 

“ Yea,” pursued Buccleugh, with one of his 
strange smiles, “ near eleven years ago it is, and I 
warrant the chap of whom you speak was a limber, 
black-eyed deil of a fellow, with never a hair on's 
face, ready to put his judges to their wits' end in 
argument, and any man to the sword's point in a 
fencing-bout. The others, sink them, were blunder- 
ing rogues — journeymen pirates — but a skilly 
sword he had and a smooth tongue.” 

“ 1 do not think,” commented Captain Stirkey, 
sternly, that the pirates dealt greatly in fencing. 
The person of whom you speak, and for whom you 
profess so much admiration, was probably more 
nearly concerned with causing men — aye, and 
women and children — to walk the plank.” 

“.No, that he never did,” denied Buccleugh; 
“ with all his faults he was humane. When such 
goings-on were a-gate, he ever went below. 'Twas 
the fighting only in which he took part ; and 'twas 
that which every pirate man in the ship united in 
declaring won him indulgence.” He strolled away 
down the deck with an air of being able, if he chose, 
to add much to the information he had already 
given, 

“ What would the man be at? ” inquired Sir Paris, 
languidly. 

“ He ever likes to hint,” the captain replied, tes- 
tily, “ that he hath been with pirates ; and 'tis very 
like that such is the case. He was a wild blade in 
his youth, and is not much better these days. The 
general finds him of use with the Indians. I believe 
him to be as honest and humane with them as he 


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74 

is dishonest and inhumane with people of his own 
race. He has an Indian wife — ” 

Sir Paris motioned slightly toward where Lit 
and Diana were approaching, and the captain 
checked his remarks. “ You can see yourself how 
he might be useful,” he added, in a lower tone. 

“ I find him a most engaging gentleman,” Sir 
Paris murmured, with an air of closing the inter- 
view. Later in the day, he approached Lit and her 
father, and addressed old Dad with great elabora- 
tion. 

“ Your pardon, sir. The name which you gave 
my niece this morning — ” The two turned to face 
him. “ Alexander Buccleugh, I think you said. 
Are you, mayhap, related to the Buccleughs of 
Kildonan?” 

“ My father is Laird of Kildonan,” returned Buc- 
cleugh. 

“ Your father?” repeated Sir Paris, inquiringly. 
“ Pardon me ; I should have supposed — I have 
met the laird. He is a man but little older than 
yourself.” 

“ You allude to my brother,” said Buccleugh, 
shortly. “ My father has been dead for some years. 
He is laird of Kildonan. My brother is, as you 
say, but little my elder. Sufficient, however, that 
I am not laird.” 

This very novel method of acknowledging him- 
self a younger son seemed to tickle Sir Paris. He 
chuckled, and looked at Buccleugh with new interest. 

“ You would not have been at Cambridge, I take 
it ? ” he asked, tentatively. 

“ I took my degree — and took it ere I was one 
and twenty, at the University of Edinburgh,” re- 


sponded Buccleugh, briefly. “Are you writing a 
book, sir, that you seek so much information? ” 

“ Exactly, exactly,” fluttered Sir Paris. “ I am 
writing a genealogy of the Chaters family. And 
the Chaters family is connected by marriage with 
the lairds of Spens, who in their turn, though you 
may not know it, are connected by marriage once 
more with the Buccleugh family, or more properly, 
I should say, with the family from whom certain 
of. the Buccleughs descend by the maternal side. 
It is — ” Sir Paris was going on, with raised finger, 
when old Dad interrupted him with a rather grim 
laugh. 

“ Spare us the details. I myself am my own an- 
cestor; and my daughter here hath an ancestry of 
which she may well be proud. A prince’s daughter 
was her mother ; and yet she blushes whene’er ’tis 
mentioned ; look at her now.” 

Lit turned her shoulder, and hid her angry face 
by joining Diana, who appeared at the boat’s side. 

“ You married, ah — one, ah — of the aboriginal 
ladies, I take it,” commented Sir Paris, smoothly. 

“ I did,” returned Buccleugh. “ And I have a 
son whom any prince in Europe might be proud to 
own.” 

“ And this one beauteous daughter, as well,” re- 
minded Sir Paris. 

Buccleugh cast a swift, stealthily smiling glance 
at Lit’s back, which seemed to say that she had heard 
all their talk, and answered : 

“ Yes; with a Creek princess for her mother, and 
a Scottish laird to father her, she should be a lass 
of spirit. And she is.” 

The shores of Charles Town had dwindled now 


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76 

to a low green line, with here and there a nick or 
break upon it, which meant a plantation or a clear- 
ing. Diana turned, with one last black look like 
a curse, and went below. Lit followed her after a 
time, and the two men, who found themselves alone, 
remained on deck talking. 

Junius, Sir Paris’s man, was tall, black, graceful, 
with a savage, rolling eye, and the unusual adorn- 
ment, for a negro face, of a pair of fierce moustachios. 
He had the carriage of a game-cock, the swagger of 
an ebony Achilles. 

Sir Paris took pride in his mettlesome beauty, 
as one might in the appearance of a favourite 
horse. “ He meets my fancy of the Moor in Mr. 
Shakespeare’s excellent tragedy,” his master said. 
“ ’Twould be a shame to have him in shabby cotton- 
ades and homespuns — though indeed the rogue 
makes cloth-of-gold of all he puts on.” 

The baronet had devised for his attendant a livery 
which looked not so strange to eighteenth century 
eyes as it would to those of our times. Junius him- 
self felt deep and evident delight in its eastern glitter 
and gaudiness, and wore like a crest upon his proudly 
carried head the aigretted turban which went with it. 

This regalia absolved him from certain servile 
regulations. “ One cannot be always doffing a tur- 
ban as one may a hat — ’twould be absurd. Make 
a proper bow, Junius, and let the head-gear alone,” 
ran Sir Paris’s commands. 

And Junius made the most of this privilege, bear- 
ing himself with the insolent elegance of a prince. 
Yet when the offence is in a man’s muscles and 
bones, in the roll of an eye which turns when the 
head does not, in the flexible posing of a hand upon 


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77 

a hip — so that, it seems, the jewelled hilt of a scim- 
iter must be underneath the brown fingers — one is 
at a loss just where to place the indignity. 

In the choice of this handsome savage for per- 
sonal attendant, Sir Paris displayed no little of the 
characteristic Chaters spirit. To set such a cham- 
pion at lugging a lap-dog about, and make him 
master of the infinite niceties which went to the 
care of an eighteenth century beau’s fineries, these 
were tasks that needed a brave man. And many 
of Sir Paris’s cronies, who held him but a foolish, 
fribbling nonentity, yet warned him that this man 
of his was like, at the slightest check, to put a knife 
in his master’s heart, and be off for Augustine; and 
added (though none saw the bravery of Sir Paris 
Chaters doing so) that themselves would not dare 
trust such a savage about their throats with a razor 
daily. 

“ He’s a devil of a fellow among the wenches,” 
complained poor Matthew Zubley, the steward. 
“We have ever a pair of ’em — or more — ready 
to claw each other’s windpipes for his sake; while 
the sober men of the plantation have good reason 
for to go about to slay him. He’ll cost you a negro 
or more before you’re quit of him — and no man 
but yourself may give him a reproof and sleep o’ 
nights thereafter. Be advised. Sell him.” 

But the baronet laughed at these prognostications 
— indeed, they added to the pride he felt in his 
remarkable attendant. And so, whoever was omitted 
from this hejira, the tall black went. 

Now Sir Paris, calling from above, directed 
Junius to bring up Belinda. “ The poor soul,” the 
master explained, turning to Buckaloo, “ is like to 


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78 

suffer greatly from the sickness of the sea, and I 
would fain have her where she can breathe the fresh 
air, enjoy this fair prospect, and my attentions at 
one and the same time.” 

“ Another finicky female aboard,” growled the 
captain, sotto voce , as he passed. “ I shall thank 
God when I see Tybee Roads.” 

“ A lemon,” suggested old Dad, “ would relieve 
the lady, perhaps.” 

“ She would not take it,” sighed the baronet. 
“ Belinda is most monstrous fond of sweets ; but 
just in proportion as she loves them, she abhors 
acids.” 

Buckaloo drew back in some surprise as the tall 
black man came up the companionway, bearing a 
small and shivering King Charles spaniel. 

The insignificant beast deposited on Sir Paris’s 
knees, the attendant was ordered back for a heavier 
wrap to spread over it, a dish of milk, a small sweet- 
cake, and some few other trifles, and the baronet 
settled down to a comfortable hour’s coddling of 
his pet. 

When the breakfast-bell rang, Belinda was elab- 
orately transferred to Junius’s knees. As they went 
below, Buckaloo, glancing back, had sight of a 
strange picture. 

A light breeze fled along the horizon with gleam- 
ing feet, leaving a shining trail. Against the toss- 
ing, pale green background, the dusky head and 
crimson turban of the tall, erect, black warrior stood 
suddenly forth as he sat, alien and uncompromising 
as an idol, the dog, a tiny rag of life, laid like a 
sacrifice across his knees. And it was in the Scotch- 
man’s mind that if he largely loved the creature, or 


much desired its continued existence, he should have 
some qualms at this juxtaposition. 

After breakfast, Lit found opportunity for speech 
with the old man, and instantly inquired, “ Where 
had you those clothes ? ” 

Her father looked down at his well-clad limbs, 
and pulled the ruffles about his hands. “ I got 
them from the box of a fellow who is not aboard,” 
he announced, blandly. “His family — decent, 
right-minded people — are sending him out clothes 
from England. Tis a good suit, is it not? After 
the Scotch, I ever like English cloth. ’Tis so well 
made, and wears, too. ’Tis my good luck the man 
was my size — he must be a pretty fellow, for they 
fit me most exactly, do they not ? ” 

“ That they do,” declared Lit, warmly. “ But 
what will you say to their owner when we are come 
to Savannah ? ” 

“ Why, can I insure the safe delivery of every 
package that comes aboard the sloop that I fall to 
be passenger upon ? ” inquired her father, with vir- 
tuous indignation. “No, Lit; you carry things 
too far. ’Tis not my fault if the lid comes off his 
box, and I mistake it for my chest, in the general 
confusion.” 

“ I carry things too far, do I?” retorted his 
daughter, laughing. “ That is what I thought when 
I saw that ribband on thy hair. When has thy hair 
been combed at all ? Was’t not enough to comb it, 
but thou must go and tie thy locks up with a ribband ? 
Fie! Salequah will not know thee.” 

At the name of his little Indian son, the man’s 
face softened and changed wonderfully. 

“ Will he like it, think you ? ” he inquired. “ Nay, 


So RETURN 

the boy marks nothing about dress. He will not 
care at all.” 

“ And I think,” declared Lit, “ that ’twill pleasure 
him, though he is an Indian lad, to be a gentle- 
man’s son — and truly, Dad, braved so, thou art 
a gentleman, and a comely, big, well-made one, 
and well-carried. Why,” and she took him by the 
shoulder, and held him critically at arm’s length, 
the better to admire, “ methinks any lad — or any 
maid, either — ” 

They both laughed, and Lit, dodging a jesting 
paternal cuff, went again on deck. 

During the voyage down, the girl’s attention and 
affection had been divided between Diana’s coach- 
horses and a pair of imported English stock horses 
which seemed to have been consigned to the sloop 
from the English brig at Charles Town. 

They were within a day’s sail of Savannah when, 
going down to feed and make much of these humble 
friends one morning, she found in charge of them 
the young man of the tap-room episode. He looked 
considerably the worse for wear, and had evidently 
been on a prolonged drinking bout during the entire 
voyage. Lit bade him good morning very civilly, 
but with some disapproval in her manner. 

“ Be them your horses ? ” she asked, sharply. 

“ They belong to my employer,” answered the 
young man. 

“ Well, then,” returned Lit, “your employer’s 
horses have been mighty poorly looked after this 
voyage, young man, and I should advise him to put 
somebody in charge of ’em that cares more for 
beasts than you appear to.” 

“ I have been sick,” explained the young man, pen- 


RETURN 8 i 

itently.. “ I should not have supposed that I would 
be seasick again, but these small coast boats do ride 
so crank.” 

.“Oh! the boats ride crank, do they?” returned 
Lit, scornfully, patting the tall gray mare’s velvety 
nose, and giving her a carrot from her pocket. 
“ Well, ’tis my opinion, young man, that your sick- 
ness had naught to do with water.” 

“ I remember you now,” the other said, suddenly. 
“ You are the young woman who so defended Mis- 
tress Chaters — ” 

“ Hush,” interrupted Lit, “ the lady is not ten 
feet from you. For the Lord’s sake, have you 
been too — sick — to know that you were in the 
same boat with her ? ” 

“ Well,” he persisted, “ you are the young woman 
I saw at the Boar’s Head in Charles Town, and I 
met your father this morning on the boat. Your 
name is Buccleugh, is it not? ” 

“ Why, yes, I reckon ’tis,” returned Lit, “ when 
Dad chooses to twist his tongue to say it that way.” 

“ And mine,” supplied the young man, “ is Fran- 
cis Bennerworth. I do not live in Savannah, but 
south of it.” 

“ Nor do I live in Savannah,” interrupted Lit, 
shortly, “ but down below St. Simon’s, and almost 
to Augustine.” And she turned abruptly, and 
started toward the rude companionway. She 
had an old grievance against herself that any well- 
looking, pleasant-spoken man could beguile her 
judgment, however obvious and notorious his faults. 

“ I am glad you like my horses,” Bennerworth 
called after her, “ although you so much detest their 
keeper.” 


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“ The horses,” retorted Lit, over her shoulder, 
“ are decent, sober bodies, who do not allow them- 
selves to be debauched.” 

When she came up on deck they had sighted 
Tybee Island. Sir Paris stood shivering in a great 
cloak with multitudinous capes and pocket flaps, all 
furred and fastened with silver clasps like a fine 
lady’s garment. 

“I do not see but that the country looks well 
enough,” Lit heard Diana’s voice say sharply, as she 
came on deck. 

“ ’Tis a most desolate land,” whined Sir Paris, 
“ all so curiously flat, and like a — like a desert.” 

“ Well,” retorted Diana, “ if it were a desert, and, 
for good, sound, and sufficient reasons of my own 
I chose to go there, I should go, my dear uncle; the 
appearance of the thing should not daunt me.” 

“No doubt you are right,” sighed Sir Paris; 
“ you are very like your father before you. When 
he decided upon a thing, it became immediately 
righteous and holy. ’Tis a most fortunate arrange- 
ment, and well for them who have it; but I have 
it not. I am aware that my judgment is fallible; 
and I think it possible that I might make a mistake 
now and again.” 

Diana knitted her brows over this irony. Having 
conned a speech which should intimate that her uncle 
never did anything but make mistakes, she was 
about to return to the charge with it, when Lit came 
up and interrupted. 

“ ’Tis a brave coast, is it not, Sir Paris? Inland, 
there are great savannahs, where, with a good horse' 
you may gallop from dawn till dark; and there is 


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83 

food for your horse underfoot and water for him 
at stations all along the way. I love this country.” 

“ Probably because you were born in it, my dear 
young woman,” returned Sir Paris, wearily. “ To 
those who are used to the trim gardens of Albion, 
or even the cultivation of our lately forsaken home 
in the Carolinas, this land seems but strange and 
unfriendly.” 

The two girls were deep in a discussion of the 
probabilities of Diana’s finding entertainment at the 
inn; and so little was Sir Paris’s exordium marked 
that he, deciding that neither young woman cared 
at all whether the land pleased him or not, went 
below to his cabin to make himself beautiful against 
the landing. 


CHAPTER V. 


A TALE TOLD IN THE DARK 

“ O haud your tongue, my lily leesome thing, 

Let a’ your mourning be ; 

Ye’se ne’er be buried in Scottish ground, 

Its streams ye’ll nae mair see ; 

I brought you away to punish you, 

For breaking your vows to me.” 

I T was the wagon yard of an inn in Savannah. 
The evening air held some chill; a great fire 
had been built near the centre of the enclosure, 
and about it lay a motley company of Indians, 
negroes, Scots, English, fisherfolk, and the ordinary 
run of tavern loafers, such as might be found at 
inns or trading-posts of that time and place. 

Around the edges of the brightness where the 
dark night seemed to set a wall, there leaped into 
sight now and then, as the fire flickered, one vehicle 
or another, one horse or another, for the fenced 
enclosure was lined with these, wheeled to its edges, 
or munching at racks. It revealed thus fitfully a 
lumbering old coach or two, and many specimens of 
that clumsy cart which might still be seen in the 
region twenty years ago, whose wheels were made 
from sections sawn out of tree-trunks, and whose 
unloaded weight upon a sandy road was quite suffi- 
cient for a stout horse. Near the group around the 
84 


return 


85 

fire, tied to a stake and well supplied with green 
marsh hay, was a black steed of remarkable size 
and beauty. 

Upon the same side of the fire there sprawled 
a tall old man, black-eyed, with the bearded lip 
of a prophet or an Emir, dirty, unkempt, yet despite 
all this, and his swagger and vociferous bragging, 
with something in his lines and in his port that 
bespoke good blood. This was the black stallion’s 
master, Dad Buckaloo, returned with gusto to his 
ordinary, after the brief throw-back of his late 
voyage down from Charles Town. 

General Oglethorpe was not in Savannah, but 
was hourly expected up from the forts below. Diana 
had found no better lodging for herself and her 
establishment than that afforded by this small and 
primitive inn. Below-stairs a group of young offi- 
cers were supping noisily in the main parlour, so 
that the chambers assigned to the Chaters party 
were above and overlooking the wagon-yard. 

Bennerworth, who leaned beside Buckaloo in the 
firelight, had just concluded with Dad a low-spoken 
compact that Diana’s affairs should remain unmen- 
tioned by them in Savannah, adding the information 
that he had been at pains to find that neither Captain 
Stirkey nor the sailors on board — if they had any 
knowledge of the affair — had identified their beau- 
tiful young passenger as its protagonist. 

“ Aye,” murmured Buckaloo, “ it shall not be told 
by me.” Presently he added, “ You may say what 
you will about interrupted weddings ; ’tis them that 
are not prevented that are the worst happenings. 

I would I had seen this one. ’Twas a brave sight, 

I warrant me, and a brave speech the bride made 


86 


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when she stood on the altar steps and spoke out 
her mind to the company. She’s a lass o’ spirit — 
a lass o’ spirit ! ” 

“ They tell me,” remarked Bennerworth, in as 
low a tone, “ that she’s like to kill Cameron.” 

A woman who had been sitting near Buckaloo', 
raised her head, and one saw the features of Lit, as 
she said, angrily, yet in a guarded tone, “ They say 
it because she has no man to speak for her.” 

Buckaloo threw back his head and laughed. 
“ She’s a better man hersel’ than Sir Ringlets,” 
he asseverated, with many oaths. “ But she might 
be that and be no man at all.” 

He turned to give a push with his foot to an 
Indian squaw crouching near the fire. “ Go rub 
the horse down, thou,” he said to her, “ and see 
that his halter be well fastened; he’ll stir things 
hereabouts if he get loose.” 

Now there arose a sudden outcry and scurrying 
in the direction of the inn. A man’s tall figure 
leaped from the doorway, hotly pursued by a half- 
dozen others ; the party was that group of young 
officers who had been supping in the down-stairs 
parlour. The fugitive made straight for the fire; 
the group about it, upon his side, shrank apart; he 
sprang lithely into the circle of light, rose like a 
bird and cleared the blaze in one flying leap, running 
into the outer darkness with a derisive challenge 
to those after him. 

Lit got an impression of the lad as he flew over 
the great heaps of blazing brands. He was above 
six feet, broad shouldered, wearing only breeches 
and shirt, and with a tousle of short flaxen curls 
flying about his flushed, laughing face; for the 


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87 

heavy gold-laced coat and formal tie-wig had been 
removed in after-supper relaxation. He held some 
shining thing — evidently the object of pursuit — 
high in his right hand as he ran, shouting gay chal- 
lenge and defiance. 

“ Who gets it may have it,” he called back out 
of the darkness; and Lit saw, though she guessed 
that no other did, the bright thing rise, describe 
a long parabola, and seem to fall within an upper 
window of the inn. 

“ That fellow comes of thy blood, Lit,” old Buck- 
aloo- said, admiringly. “ None but an Indian could 
leap so.” 

The pursuers were balked; one or two of them 
in their mad onrush had stepped in the coals and 
scorched their toes. “ Babe Marshall, you deil,” 
shouted one of them, “ come back — we’re not going 
to follow you through the fires of Tophet for that 
thing. Come back ! ” 

Being adjured in many voices and many keys 
to return, the young man, who had circled about 
in the darkness, called from the doorway of the 
inn in a very breathless yet wholly derisive voice, 
and the half-dozen young blades turned and rushed 
after him pell-mell. Evidently they found that the 
object of their search had been disposed of; there 
was the sound of some good-natured scuffling as 
the tall young man was searched; then the voices 
died away into the general murmur of sound which 
came from the lighted inn, and Dad had leisure to 
listen to Lit, who was muttering resentfully that 
the man might be an Indian, but he was surely of 
a new breed, and that she wished for her part her 
eyes were as blue and her skin as white. 


88 


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“ Lord, Lord,” commented the old man, “ isn’t 
that a wench all through! A lad cannot shoot 
through the air with such speed but she will give 
you the colour of his eyes — aye, and be ogling his 
heels as he goes over.” 

Buccleugh had come just to the garrulous stage 
of his potations, and now settling down, he turned 
more fully to the circle about the fire, and reverted 
to the matter of interrupted marriages. 

“ I could tell you a tale,” he said, “ of a wedding 
that was balked once in Scotland. Aye, in 
Scotland it was, and when I was a young man. 
Would you like to hear the story ? ” 

There came varying forms of assent and invi- 
tation from Dad’s cronies in the circle, and a Scotch 
sailor called, “ Spin your yarn, Buckaloo ; ’twill be 
all lies, yet none the less good hearing for that. 
But give us some jlrink before you set in; lies 
are sometimes dry work for those who listen to 
them.” 

Lit left the fire and went swiftly toward the door 
leading to the tap-room, whence it seemed her name 
was called. She met on the way a servant who 
informed her that the lady, Diana Chaters, in the 
up-stairs parlour of the inn, desired to speak with 
her. 

You might have fancied that his daughter’s de- 
parture removed some constraint from the old man 
— were it conceivable for him to feel constrained 
by any laws human or divine. 

“ Ha ! a brave yarn I’ll spin you,” he cried, “ the 
story of Alexander Buccleugh’s marriage. But lad,” 
turning to Bennerworth, “ you’re no drinkin’. ’Twill 
take more than James Oglethorpe — much as he is 


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89 

— to keep good rum out of my jug. Drink, man, 
while you can come by it.” And thereafter, as he 
talked, he sedulously plied the younger man with 
liquor. 

“ I mind me well the time,” he began, “ I was 
home again in Scotland, after ten years’ absence. 
I mind the feel of the air and the look of the sky. 
There was a mist on Ben Cronach. I have ever 
seen when there was a veil on this my mountain, that 
there was something toward in my own affairs. 
They had told me, at the landing, of a grand wed- 
ding a-gate at the castle. I wore the clothing in 
which I had been washed ashore, — a seaman’s suit, 
and something of the dirtiest.” 

“ Were you ever a sailor, Buckaloo ? ” inquired the 
Scotchman, significantly. It was a question which 
touched very nearly that rumour to which Captain 
Stirkey had alluded when the hanging of Stede 
Bonnet and his crew was under discussion on the 
voyage down. 

“ Was I ever a sailor?” roared old Dad. “ Do 
you get down on your marrow-bones, matey, and 
thank God this night that you be not called to 
meet upon the high seas such a sailor as I was.” 

“ A shipwrecked mariner you were, then, come 
home to your father’s halls,” agreed the other, with 
a grin. 

“ Aye, and wore,” Buckaloo went on, “ ship- 
wrecked clothing. My hair was unkempt — a 
horse’s mane — as the wind whipped it about my 
eyes. My beard was then, even as you see it now, 
the beard of an Esau. A pretty figure for a bride- 
groom, say you? Yea, a figure to fill the eye of 
a lily-white bride in her paduasoy and laces ! 


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90 

“ The day was falling as I came up to the castle, 
but there were no lights set out greatly, and there 
was no stir of preparation. Word was that the old 
man in dying had said the banns should be cried 
on the Sabbath after his going; and that would 
have brought the marriage itself to take place this 
day at high noon. 

“ But would he wed my bride at noonday ? Not 
he ! He had not dared, even though the story went 
that I had been hanged in chains six months gone. 

“Of whom do I speak ? Of my brother. My 
elder by a year, he held thereby th$ estates, and 
sucked up all the honours which should have been 
mine. But, by God! nature knew her own; and 
when I came, a sturdier shoot upon the ancestral 
tree, she dowered me with all he coveted. The 
taller and the stronger since I can remember, I 
could ever overthrow him in a wrestling-bout — 
and did so till he would cope with me no more. 
For the girl, Jean Dalkeith — called by the title 
of Lady, but without a doit to feed her — she came, 
as poor kin ever come to a Scotch castle. A slim 
little lass — I see her yet. I was a big braw lad 
of twelve, my brother older by a year and shorter 
by a head, a cruel, fawning, ill-favoured lout.” 

He bent his brooding gaze upon the coals; and 
the yard was silent save for the munching of horses, 
the occasional stamping of a hoof, and the gentle 
falling in of a brand, for the fire was come to the 
quiet of middle age. 

“Aye, she glowed like a heat-white lily in our 
dark old home. Poor kin — you would mind me ? 
Nay, no princess of the royal blood had been offered 
more devotion. My mother, growing then very 


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9 1 

feeble — she died within the year — must have her 
ever in sight. My father, who was of my make 
and a man of few words to most, would tell her 
tales by the hour, or lead her in his hand, or set 
her before him on his tall red horse when he went 
abroad. 

“ Ogilvie, who comes from my part, says,” went 
on the old man, enjoyingly, “ that my brother loved 
but her always, and for her sake never wed. Every 
servant in the house, every retainer in the clan, 
worshipped her. She was a queen among us. 
Naught was good enough for her. 

“ Yet, was there one thing good enough — and 
too good. As a child she was my thrall, body and 
soul. I gave her never soft words nor slavering 
caresses, as he did, poor mawkish fool! I asked 
her never, ‘ Wilt thou? ’ ’Twas ever, ‘ Thou shalt.’ 
And when I chose to be stern with her, she who 
queened it with the other would come creeping to 
my side, and own with tears any fault I saw fit 
to tax her with. Yea, and offer for it most sweet 
reparation. 

“ When she was come a maid, the tale was still 
the same. It seemed a power went out from that 
still pale girl that made men mad for her. Lord! 
we had gallants of all degrees moping and mewl- 
ing about the castle, six deep. For me, ’twas gay 
sport to watch them, who knew I had but to raise 
finger and my lady would come trembling to me 
like a hound to heel. And what made the game 
go merrier in my sight was my brother’s writhings. 
No bonnet-laird so loutish but the poor-spirited 
thing flushed and went pale and shook at the 


92 RETURN 

thought : ‘ Now comes the man who takes her from 
us/ 

“ ’Twas on my birthnight, when I came of age, 
he worked his courage to the sticking-point, and 
made me the grand offer. I was not then as you 
see me now; I was a man to fill a woman’s eye, 
— a bold lover and a domineering. Comes he to 
my chamber, then, where I stood dressed for my 
birthnight fete, twiddling my laces and my jewels 
before a mirror, and hems and haws, and finally 
spits out that she’s not happy; that her heart’s 
mine; that she will none other; that he cannot 
bear to see her suffer — he canna — d’ye mind ! 
Says he, with a canting whine in his voice, ‘ I stand 
between you and the title, brother, I stand between 
you and the estates ; but here, in her heart, you have 
all that I would crave. I would with glee fare forth 
a beggar, an she went content beside me — nay, 
I would go forth without her, did she bide happy 
by my act.’ 

Go, then ! ’ I told him. ‘ And cease to prate 

of it.’ 

Our father will not have it so,’ whines the 
heepocrite. 

Aye, will he not? ’ says I. ‘ Why, then, our 
father hath too many sons, methinks.’ 

Sandy — ’ he began, going back to our boy- 
hood names to cozen me. 

Nay, call me Esau,’ I says to him, ‘ for I see 
you would persuade me to traffic in my birthright.’ 

“ ‘ I will not call you out of your name, Alex- 
ander,’ he answers me. ‘ But you shall hear what 
I have to offer you. Make her happy. Wed her. 


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93 

and you shall live here, the lord in fact so long as 
we both last. Should you die first — ’ 

e “ I roared in his face at the words, and looked 
his puny body up and down, and roared again. 
‘ I die before thee! ’ says I. And then once more, 
like that, ‘ I die before thee! ’ 

“ His face was white, but he made shift to get 
on and say that, losing her, he should never wed. 
That if he died before me the chieftainship was 
mine; and if he did not (whereat I grinned again) 
why, my children should inherit. 

“ God’s blood ! It drove me mad to hear him 
brag of this which should all have been mine, and 
parcel out a beggar’s portion of’t to proffer me! 
Me, to live a pensioner upon him! Me, to wed 
because of his pleasure — or the pleasure of any 
man living! 

“ 4 1 spare you a blow,’ says I, at last, ‘ because 
I would not kill the heir to lands I should inherit, 
and if I struck you now I should do no less than 
kill. Know then, my lord, who strut into author- 
ity before the title’s yours, that I’ll not wed Miss 
Mawkin to pleasure you. But mind that she 
belongs to me. Think not that I release my grip 
upon mine own. I go now out of this house that 
has been my fathers’ for a thousand years. I do 
not go down to those fools below, who would make 
merry on account of my majority — my majority! 
What means my coming of age? A heritage of 
injustice and wrong. I will go forth, just as I 
am, and with my two bare hands delve out a for- 
tune for myself — and for her. See that you aspire 
not to her while I am away. I, to trust to your 
love-sick mouthings! Not wed? Yea, lightly 


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94 

uttered! And when I’d set myself up as your 
heir — your heir, hell and damnation have you ! — 
you’d buckle to some wench and fill the house with 
brats.’ 

“ Yah ! ” the old man laughed, reminiscently, “ his 
white face was good to see! I thrust by him, and 
out of the house, just as I was, without waiting for 
my peruke to be tied, still in my dancing-pumps, 
the while he ran to fetch our father — Jean Dalkeith 

— the priest — to entreat with me. ’Twas a chill, 
raw evening, and rain was falling. Ere any from 
the castle reached me, I mounted horse and rode. 

< “ Of my life for the six years which followed, 
’tis not in my mind to tell you now — ’twould make 
a brave tale for a winter’s fireside. I was some- 
times aloft, and sometimes brought low; and I 
learned to know that ofttimes cutthroats and pirates 
are men, and those who pass by that name and try 
their betters in courts of law, are mice. 

But I set out to spin you the yarn of my home- 
coming, and an interrupted wedding. I won to 
the door drenched, dripping, mud-spattered, in rags. 
There was a new servant at the entrance who would 
fain have barred my way, but I flung him across the 
hall, where he lay quiet. Then on up into the chapel 

— O, I knew the way — an instinct led me. 

“ God, but they turned pale faces toward me ! 
Father Paulus — I knew him by his voice before 
I saw him — stood in his dirty gown, prepared 

to make them one. And my brave brother his 

knees smote together that I thought he would have 
fallen. Then he drops her hand, claps a paw to 
his head, and cries out, ‘ The dead is alive ! ’ 

“With the noise, turns Jean. Her face went whiter 


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95 

than her gown, and she whispers my name twice. 
There were not above a dozen guests. I stretched 
out my hand to her as she stood shaking, and said 
just the bare word, * Come! ’ 

“ One fellow, with the spirit of a man in him, 
drew sword. Mine eyes were in her eyes, and I 
saw him not; but I heard the ring of steel, and 
then my brother crying, ‘ Put up the blade! ’Tis 
Alexander returned from the dead.’ 

“ I made no motion still, but once more bade 
her, ‘Come!’ With a shudder, she disparted her- 
self from her would-be bridegroom — who still held 
her hand, as bidden by the priest — then, with a 
hesitating step, as of one who tries an uncertain 
bridge, she halted toward me. Many times in her 
slow, strange progress to my arms, she halted — 
and shuddered — and drew back. When she did 
so, I spoke, for I could see her eyes no more — 
her white face was over her shoulder, her gaze set 
upon her craven bridegroom, her white lips apart 
as though she begged of him, ‘ Forgive.’ 

“ And still I commanded, and still she faltered 
toward me till almost in my clasp. I went one pace 
to her and drew my arm about her, then faced them 
all. * I have come for my wife,’ I cried, ( and I take 
her, from this den of thieves.’ 

“ Then comes my craven brother, truckling with, 

‘ Brother — brother ! ’ and, ‘ We thought you dead.’ 
He promised, an I would lie at the castle the night, 
the priest should, when our banns were cried and 
I in more suitable garb, say for me the words which 
had well-nigh been said for him. He called on God 
to witness that he never meant me treachery. 

“ I cast his insults back in’s teeth. Lie under 


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his roof and hope to wake this side the Styx ? — 
not such a fool was I. I drew my wife away, and 
seated her, with her bridal white and floating veil, 
behind me on the good horse they brought, all in 
the sullen dripping dark, though guests and hosts 
and all howled remonstrances and invitation after, 
and set my face toward the sea. 

“ I could feel her slight arms tremble where they 
clasped me; and as we passed through the gate, 
she hung her head, and burst into foolish sobs. 
‘ Nay, nay, my girl,’ says I, ‘ there’s water enough 
abroad to-night ; swallow the tears — they please 
me not.’ And I brought her down to the coast and 
so on to the new world.” 

The latter part of this tale was told as to un- 
seen auditors. The great voice had grown hollow, 
a voice reaching the hearer’s ear through caverns 
of the past. The old hate had flamed and burned 
out in those black eyes, leaving a smouldering coal, 
of meaning indecipherable. Now, the conclusion 
found a ring of strangely — and as variously — 
moved faces, played upon by the aging fire. 

The Scotch sailor (who knew that castle of which 
Buccleugh spoke, and had heard wild tales of those 
wanderings so lightly mentioned by him who had 
been through them) leaned forward with shrewd 
gray eyes set upon the old man’s enigmatic face, 
and, in the silence following the story’s close, in- 
quired : 

“ Will your daughter inherit, then, d’ye say ? — 
or does your brother keep faith ? ” 

A moment, the fire whispered and flickered, and 
the horses munched, stamped, or shifted; then, 
“ Lit’s no daughter of Jean Dalkeith’s,” quoth Buc- 


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cleugh, roughly. “ She — Jean — was ” — his eyes 
searched the circle about the fire for sight of Lit. 
He had observed her departure, or the tale had 
been otherwise told — or not at all. Not finding 
her, he went on, “ She was a puling, pining thing, 
Jean Dalkeith, who gave me no bairns. Lit is the 
daughter of a Creek woman ! ” 

“Yon’s child?” cried the sailor, with a jerk 
of his thumb toward the squaw, who had come 
back during the recital, and now squatted glower- 
ing malignantly, and showing — though reputed to 
understand no English — a notable disrelish for the 
entertainment. 

Before Buccleugh could answer, Bennerworth, 
whose cup the old man had watchfully kept filled 
all evening, but whose mobile countenance was 
tremblingly alive to every turn of the story, cried 
out, “No — never — surely not ! ” 

Weeping Moon (who comprehended no English) 
gave him a black look, and old Dad burst out laugh- 
ing. The dark mood which the telling of his tale 
had brought upon him, vanished before the humour 
of the situation. “And why for no, young sir?” 
he roared, jovially. “ Is not she fair enow to be 
the mother of Venus’s self ? Speak out — she knows 
not thy tongue.” 

But Bennerworth applied himself sulkily to the 
rum, muttering that the hag might know not Eng- 
lish, but, for his own part, he understood looks; 
and he discreetly said no more upon the subject 
of Lit’s descent. 

It was the old man who continued it with, 
“ Well, as it happens, you’re right enough. Lit’s 
mother — ” he glanced up, upon the chance that the 


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98 

girl might be within earshot, raised his voice and 
added, “ Lit’s mother was a Creek, of the Yama- 
craws, old Toma-chi-chi’s own granddaughter — 
good blood,” and he chuckled, for allusions to poor 
Lit’s savage ancestry never failed to stir her easily 
roused temper. 

The daughter’s charm, the liquor with which the 
father had plied him, conspired to render Benner- 
worth’s view of Lit’s situation acutely doleful, and 
his large emotional eyes filled with quick tears. 
“ The — the tale you told was a sad one,” he ex- 
plained, apologetically, as he wiped them away. 

Buccleugh grunted. “Let’s to the horses, and 
talk trade,” he suggested. 

Above-stairs, Lit found Diana in spirits some- 
what improved by her voyage and her rude, novel 
surroundings. On the stairs she had passed the 
hero of the fire episode, now in his coat and wig, 
and looking very imposing despite that youthful 
blond beauty which had caught her quick eye in 
the instant of his apparition. He was earnestly in- 
quiring of one of the inn servants as to the prob- 
able whereabouts of that bright thing he had thrown 
toward the building. 

The girl saw him put a piece of money into the 
man’s hand as she passed, and heard him say, 
“ ’Twas the picture of an infant, painted in colours’ 
with a gold frame about it, and shut in a gold lid. 
The thing is of more value to me than merely the 
gold upon it, since it is my own portrait done in 
infancy, and has my name engraved upon the lid, 

‘ Robert Marshall,’ with the address at Jamestown’, 
Virginia, though as I am here with General Ogle- 
thorpe now, you would have no trouble in finding 


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99 

me at the barracks. I trust it may be recovered, 
and I will pay well whosoever brings it to me.” 

When the girl entered the upper parlour, Diana 
looked around from something which she was closely 
scanning by the light of the candle upon the tall 
mantel. Lit recognised it, partly from her glimpse 
of it, and partly from the owner’s just heard de- 
scription. She realised that the locket must have 
fallen through the window, and was told almost 
immediately that it had indeed dropped into the 
lady’s lap as she sat by an open casement. 

While Lit was explaining that she knew the 
locket’s owner, who was even then searching for it, 
and that she would assist in its return, Diana contin- 
ued to gaze at the picture. It was the face of a 
sturdy boy of two, blue-eyed, pink-cheeked, with 
rebellious rings of flaxen hair striving to escape 
from the close cap that held them down. 

Something which the artist had caught in the 
calm regard of those baby eyes, laid hold upon 
Diana’s heart. “ ’Tis odd,” she murmured, half to 
herself, and half to the other, as she and Lit stood 
looking down at the picture. “ It is strange to me 
how familiar the child’s face seems. He must look 
like our family — I have infant pictures of my 
brothers, and some of my cousins. But no, the 
Chaters children are many of them gray-eyed, but 
none fair-skinned like this ; yet I have seen the face 
— or one most like it. Do you ever feel,” she 
added, turning to the girl at her shoulder, “ that 
certain people belong to you? Just when you first 
see them, I mean — or, like this, when you see 
a picture of them ? ” 

“ That I do,” and Lit laughed mellowly. “ I 


LofC. 


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never see a proper gallant, as was the owner of that 
picture there, without just some such feeling as you 
tell about.” 

Diana pushed the miniature into Lit’s hand with 
a gesture of disrelish ; her wounds were yet too fresh 
for the word gallant not to grate upon her ear. 
She turned to’ the table where a bundle of quills, 
an ink-horn, and sand-box lay, inquiring eagerly : 

“ Lit, could you — or your father — carry a letter 
for me to the Isle of Hope, on your way south- 
ward?” 

“We be not going for two weeks,” returned Lit, 
“ or mayhap longer, if the humour takes Dad to stay 
here. Old Toma-chi-chi, the Mico of the Yama- 
craws, who have their town four miles to the west 
of Savannah, is very near his last. He is ninety- 
seven years old, Mistress, and he and Dad are 
friends. Dad says sometimes that my mother was 
the old Mico’s daughter — or granddaughter — and 
sometimes he tells other stories about it. Anyhow, 
I think he will not go while the old man lasts; 
and that may be a week, or it may be a month. 
But with flood tide in the morning goes the guard- 
boat out to Skidaway. Tis roundabout, but I could 
take your letter down that way. I know most of 
the boys that be on guard duty, and Captain Jones 
is a very good friend of mine. Write your letter, 
and I can put in word of mouth for you, d’ye see? ” 

Diana turned to the table and lifted from it a 
small packet, which contained what she had already 
written to Hastie. 

There is the letter, she said; “ I thank you 

very much for your offer. I might send it down 

by the guard-boat, of course, without troubling 

& 


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IOI 


you ; but — though I will not have you beg of my 
Cousin Hastie for me — mind that — I believe that 
you might tell her certain things which would — 
would make a difference.” 

Lit took the packet and made her adieus. On 
her way down-stairs she stopped at the supper-room 
and inquired for Lieutenant Robert Marshall. Being 
told that he was not there, and surmising that he 
was still upon the hunt for his locket, she passed 
down into the wagon-yard once more, and looked 
keenly about for her father and Bennerwo-rth, whom 
she missed from the circle about the fire, where 
the humbler guests of the inn still lay drinking 
and yarn-spinning. 

She found the two, finally, drawn apart from 
the others, and deep in a horse-trade, the object 
of which seemed to be the purchase by Buckaloo 
of the stock horses that the young man had brought 
down from Charles Town. 

Lit’s attention was arrested by her first sight of 
Bennerworth. In truth, the young man had, after 
their first meeting, made some changes in his toilet 
with a view to pleasing her eye. As the talk pro- 
ceeded toward a bargain which would give her 
father the coveted animals at a ludicrously inade- 
quate price, Lit was absorbed in noting the grace 
with which the young man bore himself, and the 
bewitching tangle of curls that, unpowdered and 
unconfined by any ribbon, fell over his coat collar, 
a mass of bronzy brightness. 

“ Deuce take me for a fool,” the girl muttered, 
“ that cannot keep my eyes off a good-looking man ; 
and then, when the lads come bothering, have as 
much to-do to be rid of them.” 


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Now she discovered that Benner worth had been 
drinking more than was good for him. He was 
talking loud and boastfully, and lit guessed that 
his horse-trading would suffer by his indulgence. 
He was scarcely soberer than he had been upon the 
voyage down, though able now to keep his feet and 
an upright position. She felt a qualm of reluc- 
tance that her father should take advantage of a 
man in his condition. And yet the horses were a 
seductive prize, and old Dad was doing no more 
than every horse-trader does, unless, indeed, he had 
himself gotten the young man drunk for this pur- 
pose. Well aware that interference was likely to 
make Bennerworth’s case worse rather than better, 
she turned aside and said nothing. 

A few steps away, she met the miniature’s owner, 
and delivered up the bauble to him. A swift glance 
at the girl’s face showed the young officer that 
money would not be an appropriate reward. “ And 
who am I to thank — by name — for the return of 
my locket ? ” he asked, smiling so that two dimples 
revealed themselves in the pink of his cheeks. “ I 
am glad it fell into hands so fair and so kind.” 

A sudden impulse made Lit say to him, in a 
tone which was almost grave, “ You have a very 
beautiful young lady to thank — not myself — 
Heaven forbid that I should call myself so,” as he 
bowed low, and seemed about to identify her with 
the description. “ ’Tis a lady, indeed, and she fell 
so in love with the picture in your trinket that I 
had some ado to get it from her. You may well 
enjoy the compliment,” as Marshall blushed and 
smiled, “ for ’tis still a good likeness.” And she 



ETURN OF MY LOCKET ? 










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103 

ran away laughing to begin her preparations, having 
guessed instinctively that the lieutenant’s boyish ap- 
pearance was a sore subject with him, and shrewdly 
suspecting that this was the reason for the scuffle 
over the miniature. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE SILENT LADY 

“It's I misca’d my luve, my dear; 

I lichtlied him wi’ meikle spight; 

And now nae kame s’all kame my hair, 

In my bower ye’se see nae fire nor light, 

Nor s’all ae word pass my cruel lip mair 
Till hame s’all coom my ain true knight.” 

H ASTIE WYNNEWOODE, christened by 
the old ancestral name, Haste-thee, and 
known more generally as the Silent Lady, 
stood in the parlour of Wynnewoode Hall giving 
her orders to her under farmer. She was a tall and 
stately woman, somewhere between thirty and forty 
years of age, with a clear, bold profile, a glowing 
eye, and a cheek whose ruddy smoothness bespoke 
much open air and wholesome familiarity with 
nature. 

The communication with her assistant went for- 
ward orally for his part; the lady held a small 
slate tablet upon which she wrote and from which 
he read. The reason for the silence of the Silent 
Lady (a silence purely voluntary, it was under- 
stood, and if one might judge, wilful) was lost in 
that past which had not been lived near Savannah; 
and the strange fact of her not using the voice 
104 


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105 

which she undoubtedly possessed remained a sub- 
ject of mystery, myth, and apocrypha. 

She had certainly carried her tablet of slate or 
ivory ever since she came to this country ; and it 
was well-known that not even in the darkness, where 
her mode of communication was impossible, was 
her voice ever raised. That she was one of the most 
efficient proprietors and Wynnewoode one of the 
best administered plantations of the region, was 
also a matter of public knowledge. People of in- 
telligence probably supposed her to be dumb. To 
those sufficiently intimate or sufficiently venturesome 
to inquire or remonstrate in regard to the matter, 
she stated in writing that there was such a super- 
abundance of women spending their breath in empty 
talk, that she had, for her part, some years before, 
decided to cease. And she usually added that she 
did not miss her voice in the least, nor did she sup- 
pose that her friends would do so. 

“If Bennerworth is not come with those horses, 
I wish that you and Peter Milchett would take the 
small periagua and go up to Savannah to see 
what is the matter,” she wrote upon her tablets, 
in a light, rapid hand. 

She glanced up, but the big Englishman was not 
looking. His eyes of china blue were fixed on some- 
thing outside the window, and he was grinning 
foolishly. The Silent Lady tapped her slate im- 
patiently with the pencil, and drew a sweeping dash 
beneath what she had written. Shave’s opaque gaze 
came reluctantly down to the tablet. 

“ But Muster Bunnerworth, ’e’s back,” he an- 
swered, having read. “ I seen um go apast ’ere jist 
the minute; but I misdoubt me if ’e brought any 


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horses. Fa-a-ct is, I war down at the landin’ when 
he coome, and I ne’er saw hoof o’ horse with um.” 

The Silent Lady passed the yokel, Shave, swiftly. 
The raising of horses upon this model plantation 
of hers, in a land where horses were scarce and 
brought a fabulous price, had been her pride and her 
delight, — her pride as a business woman and her 
delight as an individual. The thought that this 
pair for which she had sent to her old home in 
England had come to any harm through the care- 
lessness of an employe could not be borne. She 
started toward the stables to ascertain the exact 
facts in the case, but before she had taken many 
steps, a young man appeared in the doorway, where 
he stood swaying gently from side to side and smil- 
ing benevolently at space. It was the Bennerworth 
of whom she had asked, and it was also the young 
man whose shapely figure, laughing gray eyes, and 
auburn curls, had taken Lit’s fancy when he erupted 
into the Boar’s Head and told the tale of Diana 
Chaters’s outburst of fury and despair on her home- 
coming, the day of her jilting; whom she had 
chaffed on the way down; and admired when in 
the Savannah inn yard he stood talking to her 
father. Just at present he was even more thoroughly 
intoxicated than he had been the night before. 

Up to this time, to drink at all had been to lose 
your place upon the Silent Lady’s model plantation. 
If Hastie Wynnewoode had ever boasted of anything, 
it could easily have been her boast that in this rude 
frontier community, where every man might be 
at some time a drunkard, a thief, a pirate, she had 
built up a staff of employes which included no 
drunkards, no shirks, and none but practical farmers. 


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107 

And the Silent Lady was herself the ablest farmer 
of them all. 

What the charm was which preserved Benner- 
worth from reproof or discharge, it would have 
been impossible for those about Hastie to guess. A 
lingering, haunting resemblance to a face which she 
had never forgotten, a trick in the turn of his eyes, 
the manner in which he lifted a cup from the board, 
the action with which he bent forward to listen, or 
threw his head back to' laugh, any of these brought 
a rush of old memories that melted her harsh reso- 
lution to water, and left him still trusted where 
another had been long since sent to the right about. 

“ Where are your horses ? ” she wrote now upon 
the tablet, and held it before the wandering and 
bibulous eye of this one of her 'retainers who had 
been forgiven so many unforgivable sins that his 
fellows had come to call him (in secure privacy, and 
in some secret terror), “ the pet.” 

The answer was a series of smiles and head- 
shakings which appeared to have a maddening effect 
upon Hastie. She bore down upon Bennerworth in 
silent wrath, and held the slate within six inches 
of his nose, tapping it violently and jerking it about 
till no man, however sober, could have read any- 
thing written upon it, to the great and manifest 
delight of Shave. Bennerworth was, as has been 
said, a lithe and boyish looking man, somewhat less 
in stature than Hastie herself; yet as he clung and 
swayed in the doorway, now abashed at his em- 
ployer’s stormy demonstrations, now fulminating a 
whole battery of propitiatory smiles wherewith to 
meet them, he pretty nearly occupied it. 

Hastie, despairing of any coherent reply, brushed 


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past him — loosening his affectionate clasp upon the 
lintel and nearly bringing him to> the ground as she 
did so — and stalked across the yard to the stables 
to investigate for herself. Fond of comfort in her 
dressing, she habitually wore a garment not unlike 
a priest’s cassock, which buttoned down below her 
firm, well-cut chin to a skirt short enough to display 
frankly a pair of stout buckled shoes on slender, 
aristocratic, feet. 

The stable-yard was a sort of open court, with 
a pump and watering-trough in its centre instead 
of a fountain. When Hastie stalked back, a tragic 
figure in the May sunshine, — since she had found in 
the stable saddle and bridle, but no horses, — Ben- 
nerworth was leaning against a hitching-post near 
the pump, waiting for her. 

Tennyson, in our later day, is authority for the 
combination of a “ whelpless eye,” so that one, fol- 
lowing his lead in matters figurative, may say that 
when the Silent Lady turned upon Bennerworth the 
glare of her horseless eye, he blenched somewhat. 

He had some money in his hands, and as she 
came up he thrust it unsteadily forward, and dropped 
upon the ground a little shower of coins. 

“ I sol’ ’em,” he announced, fatuously. “ There’s 
seventy-five guineas for you, and five for me — to 
pay me for my trouble — pay me for my trouble — 
an’ much obliged to me.” 

Hastie’s rigid fingers refused the coins and grasped 
her slate. “ Have you sold my horses ? ” she wrote. 

“ O, I worked ’em off. Yes, I worked ’em off,” 
smiled Bennerworth, as he subsided against the 
pump and napped a bit. 

“ Who made you drunk — runagate villain that 


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109 

he was — and got my horses from you ? ” wrote 
Hastie, and held it before his dreamy eyes to no 
avail. 

“ What ragamuffin — what market-beater — what 
Paul’s man hath my horses ? ” she pencilled, with 
wrathful energy. 

“Yes, O, yes,” muttered the somnolent Benner- 
worth; “ make a pother, now. You ’most knocked 
me down awhile ago.” 

Hastie’s temper, always to be described by her 
name, and brittle besides, had been breaking up at 
intervals during the entire episode. The things 
she fain would haye uttered had jammed the flood- 
way of her rage. She clutched wildly at her slate; 
it slipped its moorings and fell shivering upon the 
stones at her feet. She stared at it for an instant. 
Her sole method of speech was denied her at this 
trying moment; but not, as it appeared, all forms 
of expression. 

She advanced upon the culprit, her muscular, 
capable-looking hands outstretched. They fell as 
though predestined upon his coat collar. She ran 
him glibly forward to the brink of the horse-trough, 
where he hung astonished and gasping. There she 
paused. But as a mutter arose from his downheld 
face of, “ Be some folks would question the wis- 
dom o’ — o’ Methuselah himself!” she lifted him, 
in an access of fury, poised him deftly, and soused 
him, not once nor twice, but thrice, head-first into 
the trough, setting him half-drowned and wholly 
sobered, against a post, and regarding him with 
her usual air of quiet severity. 

Shave was standing behind the latticed gate of 
the courtyard, hugging himself in silent ecstasies, 


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and swallowing the guffaws which shook him, be- 
cause Hastie’ s ears were as keen as her discipline 
was perfect. Suddenly he felt a timid touch upon 
his arm, and a low, awed voice said : 

“ What’s to do here? ” 

Looking over his shoulder, he beheld a tall, brown 
girl in a blue stuff dress gazing at the proceedings 
with round eyes. It was Lit, who according to 
Diana’s directions had come to Wynnewoode to 
bring a letter to Hastie, and who failed to recognise 
Bennerworth in the drenched figure undergoing dis- 
cipline at the Silent Lady’s hands. 

Lit, with her usual insight and good common 
sense, had guessed that such a letter as Diana 
would now write would be unlikely to enlist the 
sympathies of any disaffected person. So she had 
begged that a brief note be substituted for the long 
communication first written, and she herself em- 
powered to relate to the mistress of Wynnewoode a 
proper version of what had befallen that lady’s 
young kinswoman. 

As Hastie disposed of Bennerworth and looked 
about her, Lit plucked up spirit to say, “ I am 
seeking Mistress Wynnewoode; I have a letter for 
her.” 

The tall being, whom she had not classified as 
man or woman, came striding forward and held 
out an authoritative hand for the missive which 
Lit was in two minds about withholding or deliver- 
ing. But Shave jogged her elbow, prompting aw- 
fully, “ Mind your manners, young woman. This 
is Mistress Wynnewoode herself.” 

Hastie took the letter, read it, and looked inquir- 
ingly at its bearer; then seeing Shave stand, all 


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1 1 1 


eyes and ears to absorb the subsequent communica- 
tion, she signed Lit to follow her, and led the way 
to the cool, dusky parlour, without so much as a 
glance toward Bennerworth, where he leaned, white 
and sick, against the hitching-post. 

Once there, she pointed first to a table with wine 
and biscuit upon it, and then to a chair. Lit re- 
moved her hat upon entering the house with just 
a man’s gesture, and seated herself, declining the 
proffered refreshments. 

Hastie again read Diana’s letter through without 
a movement of surprise or inquiry, and laying it 
down on the table beside her, still sat silent. 

“ What did she say in her letter, mistress ? ” Lit 
asked. 

For answer, Hastie pushed the sheet toward her. 
Lit took it in awkward, unaccustomed fingers, flush- 
ing darkly as she did so, held it upside down a 
moment, “ O, I see,” she remarked, and handed it 
back. “ Well, then, I am to tell you the whole 
story, I take it.” And she leaned forward in her 
chair, regarding the other with steady eyes, and 
told, with that natural eloquence which was always 
hers where her feelings were stirred, the story of 
Diana Chaters’s disaster. 

“ So they’ve spoilt the poor maid, among them 
all,” she concluded, “ and made a fool of her. Then 
comes this brute to do worse, so that she’s ashamed 
to show her face in the town she’s lived in — where 
this thing chanced to her — so she comes asking 
shelter of you.” 

Hastie Wynnewoode frowned, drew a fresh tablet 
from a desk, regarded it darkly for a moment, and 
then wrote: 


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“ She may come if she likes. I will not promise 
to coddle her outrageous selfishness. I was just 
such a young fool once, and I know that she has 
got what she most needed.” 

Lit took the slate obediently, and looked earnestly 
at the face of the writer. In spite of its haughti- 
ness it was a good face. In spite of the merciless 
self-repression it was kind. She handed the tablet 
back without a word. Then, “ I knew you’d do 
the right thing, old lady,” she said, putting her 
hand on the other’s shoulder. “ I knew as soon 
as I saw your face that you were the one to help 
her. Why, she’s no more to blame than a poor 
spoilt bairn that’s tipped over a milk-dish and soiled 
the floor round it. We must e’en get our cloths and 
sop up the milk, and comfort the poor baby as best 
we may.” 

This unexpected reception of her cold, half- 
hearted assent took Hastie somewhat aback. She 
swept the tablet clear of her first grudging words, 
and wrote upon it : 

“ Diana Chaters is my Cousin Hector’s daughter, 
and I loved him very dearly. Except through re- 
port, which has little good to say of her to my way 
of thinking, I do not know the girl herself, but I 
remember her as a spoiled child — perhaps she is 
not worse than that now.” 

Again Lit went through the form of looking at the 
slate. Again she blushed burningly, and looked 
about with a humbled, pained expression, 

“ To tell you the truth, old lady,” she burst out, 
finally, “ I never could make aught of pothooks 
on paper, — or elsewhere, for the matter of that, 
— and so long as you can’t talk, why — why, I 


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1 1 3 

can’t tell whether I please you or no, unless you give 
me a grin once in awhile.” 

Hastie smiled suddenly and most naturally, and 
Lit’s mind was at ease. She began chattering with 
the volubility characteristic of her. 

“ ’Tis a good child who would be coming to you 
now. I see your family are all of one sort, the 
high and mighty kind; and make it or break it, 
rule or ruin, each one of you must have his own 
way — excepting maybe the old gentleman, who 
would like it well enough but doth not get it.” 

The Silent Lady’s hair was cut short — a great 
head of dark, plumage-like curls; and this, in an 
era when the dressing of women’s hair had reached 
a comical elaboration, marked her as an eccentric. 
She had the hawk-like Chaters nose, and very pierc- 
ing eyes, and her head and face were more nearly 
those of a brilliant, dominating man of thirty than 
a woman. 

She left Lit sitting in the broad window-seat 
while she went to make her preparations for accom- 
panying the messenger back to Savannah, a trip 
which she decided they would make overland, using 
the ferry to the mainland, and going horseback by 
the trail, which was indeed a very good road at 
this time. Later she stepped into the room, a tall 
figure clad in a scarlet riding “ Joseph,” and wearing 
a hat which, though plumed and gold-laced, was 
plainly a man’s hat; having given her orders to 
her household in some ten minutes, and being then 
in process of drawing on a pair of gauntlets. 

Lit looked at her, first in simple admiration. As 
she examined further, she burst out, with her great 
brown eyes widening and full of laughter, “ Lord 


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114 

be good to us, old lady! When I see that there 
hat over them there curls, it gets close to my weak 
side. If you hain’t a picture of a proper young 
gentleman — barring the riding-skirts — why, I’m 
no judge; and neither them that likes me nor them 
that don’t never said that of me. Why, ’tis hard 
work for me to keep from casting sheep’s eyes at 
ye!” 

Hastie’s face softened, her eagle eyes and sar- 
castic mouth melted into a smile at the girl’s saucy, 
good-humoured assurance. Lit was a relief and 
a refreshment to her. Unable to read the caustic 
sentences it was the elder woman’s habit to write 
upon her slate, the girl felt almost none of the awe 
and shrinking of those who could do so. Where 
others saw only a handsome, bitter, unloving 
woman, Lit — ignorant, subjective as a dog — 
looked deeper, and divined a heart of gold which 
revealed itself not alone in actions, but — to her, 
at least — in expression as well. 

Now, as the two emerged from the house on 
their way down to the boat, they met Bennerworth. 
A very sober, pale, sick Bennerworth, he stood, to 
intercept them, hat in hand, his uncovered hair still 
dark and shining from the water, but his clothes 
changed, and all put to rights about him. 

Lit knew him now, and giving him a compassion- 
ate glance, drew somewhat behind Hastie, that his 
penitence might have the fewer witnesses. But 
Hastie never looked toward him as he began, 
humbly, “ Mistress Wynnewoode, I have made my 
packets for departure from the island, but I will not 
offend you by going in that boat which carries 
yourself. I will return to the island but once more ; 


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1 15 

then it will be to bring your horses, and ask your 
forgiveness for that which I have done. God knows 
you have been kind to me; and any man may see 
how ill I have requited your kindness. If you feel 
that you cannot trust me even to get back the 
animals, let Peter Milchett — or Shave — go with 
me and see them brought home in safety.” 

The Silent Lady turned and stepped quietly past 
him back into the office room, the others following. 
She sought out an ivory tablet from her desk, and 
wrote upon it: 

“ I have no reason to send Peter Milchett to 
Savannah. I have other work for him upon the 
plantation. I can trust you, Francis Benner worth. 
I shall myself procure the indigo seed in Savannah. 
You will bring it back with you, and prepare the 
ground for it as I have instructed.” 

Bennerworth stared blankly at the tablet for a 
moment after he had read what was written upon 
it, then he sat weakly down at the desk and looked 
straight ahead of him. The forbearance of this 
exacting woman touched some chord of self-respect 
which nothing had yet reached. 

“ I pray you send Peter Milchett,” he deprecated, 
finally. “ When anything puts me about, I — I 
get to drinking. I am not worthy your pity, Mis- 
tress Wynnewoode. My own father found me not 
worth his, long since. Why should you trouble^ to 
rescue me who take no trouble to rescue myself? ” 

At this moment, Lit, passing, came within his 
line of vision. He started, changed colour, half 
rose, and would have spoken. Then he seemed 
suddenly to realise that she must have been present 
from the first, and seen all. And he sank back 


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1 16 

again, leaning his head with its moist curls upon 
his hands, groaning. 

The Silent Lady dropped her tablets into her 
pocket, and wrote upon the slate, “ I say that I 
trust you. I never make mistakes in judgment.” 
Then signing to Lit, both women left the room, 
and as the latter looked back, she saw Bennerworth, 
his head bowed above the written words, and 
guessed that he was shedding some tears which 
were at once bitter and salutary. 


CHAPTER VII. 


JAMES OGLETHORPE 

“Ye gentlemen of England 

That live at home, at ease, 
How little do ye think upon 
The dangers of the seas.” 



I HE smack of the brine was all through the 


extended — and illustrious — history of the 


Chaters family. From the sea had come 
its wealth and honours, and to the sea its best and 
bravest had gone back. The long green wash of 
tropic tides covers many a proud Chaters head; 
the foaming white and steely blue of northern break- 
ers, howling along coasts inhospitable, had beaten 
to pieces many a tall Chaters bark. It was give and 
take between the gallant, intrepid race and the great, 
groaning, asking, wallowing creature, turning from 
side to side, reaching, reaching, now east, now west, 
to its despair — the moon ; crying out for lost things 
and things desired, swallowing all and wailing un- 
satisfied, unfilled. 

They had held fitful and unsure empire over the 
sullen, bidden thing, which for a season will do 
man’s labours, rebellion swelling big in its bosom. 
Anon, it revolted ; it rose as the slaves rise, clapped 
its hands, whooped, yelled, slew, devastated, drunk 


ii 7 


1 1 8 


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on freedom and on fury. It tossed giant arms to 
Heaven; it found out these insolent Graters’ upon 
their unavailing decks; it plucked them with its 
watery long hands from out their silly ships, and 
dashed them back upon its rocks and swallowed 
them down. 

O, there were widows — and enough — in the 
Ghaters family. And these widowed mothers brought 
up the infant sons that were left in their arms — 
to follow the sea! since the voice of it called them 
from their cradles, and no man or woman may be 
wiser than Fate. 

The old, adventurous, brine-roving line had in- 
termarried, as was natural, with families engaged 
in this traffic. The father of beautiful Polly Antro- 
bus sent to sea more ships than any merchant of 
Bristol. Hastie Wynnewoode’s father had been an 
admiral. Various and collateral branches of all 
the families followed the sea. The children played 
in infancy with wonderful shells and corals, spoil of 
equatorial waters, or strange lacquered toys from 
island towns and coast cities. 

The family owed its rise to the same force which 
brought wealth to her who had been Lady Chaters. 
Both dated back to the merchant princes and adven- 
turers of the fourteenth century, in the time of Ed- 
ward III. ; the days of controversy between “ Mer- 
chants of the Staple,” “ Merchant Adventurers,” 
and “ Merchants of the House,” under that prince, 
himself so fond of the sea, so active in promoting 
sea-going commerce and undertakings. 

The two lines had followed this calling of the 
sea in somewhat different manners. Sir Hector 
Chaters’s forebears, bold, restless, daring men, had 


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119 

furnished naval commanders, explorers, conquerers 
of new lands, and the bones of something like half 
of the males of the tribe lay out somewhere under 
the drifting wastes on which they had so blithely 
hazarded. 

In the Antrobus family, the mercantile instinct 
was more strongly developed. The wealth that was 
gained was kept. They were great ship-builders, 
ship-owners, promoters of merchant adventuring 
companies; but in them, as in the Chaters family, 
always the sea in one form or another called the 
men, and the tribe abounded in widows, young, 
old, and middle-aged. 

Bristol sent to these shores England’s discov- 
erer of America, Sabastian Cabot. And when 
the Americas began to offer a rich commerce to the 
mother country, Charles Town trading direct with 
Bristol and Glasgow, Sir Hector, then in the first 
flush of adventurous manhood, and just wedded to 
a wife of the same temper, gathered his belongings 
and came to this seaport of the country whose shores 
he had already twice visited, certain that however 
excellent his fortune in the old world, he could 
better it in the new. 

Diana had been born in America, her mother had 
died here, and Sir Hector’s ship was lost when she 
was a girl of ten, in a great hurricane in West 
Indian waters. 

Hastie Wynnewoode, at the time she left Diana 
in disgust six years earlier, having no considerable 
fortune, and the role of semi-dependent relative 
being an unbearable one to her high-mettled soul, 
was glad to put her small patrimony into stock, 
implements, and indentured servants, and take 


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advantage of a special grant from the trustees. 
Whereby, being an excellent business woman and 
an experienced farmer and planter, she had, in this 
six years, more than quadrupled her capital, and 
was, moreover, proprietor of one of the finest plan- 
tations in the new colony. 

Wynnewoode Hall, built by her, and planned to 
somewhat resemble her ancestral home in Devon- 
shire, was, for that time and place, a commodious 
and even luxurious dwelling. The character of its 
mistress was illustrated in the interior furnishings. 
They were plain, bare, masculine; yet there were 
concessions made to that elegance which she deemed 
her birth and breeding demanded. 

The uncovered floor of beautiful Georgia pine, 
rubbed and waxed until its golden-brown surface 
would have shamed any mahogany ever touched by 
tool, made the foundation for the beauty of the 
Silent Lady’s parlour. 

The many-paned windows were larger than those 
of most houses then built, and the snowy curtains 
which shaded them avouched the fact that the mis- 
tress of Wynnewoode loved cleanliness. The tall 
chimneypiece of oak supported curious blue china 
cups, jars, vases, and fantastic shells, reminders that 
Hastie also belonged to the sea-going Chaters fam- 
ily. A painting which represented Hastie’s father, 
the admiral, with a great war-ship going into battle 
in the background just above his shoulder; another 
which showed her mother with small, meek features 
and tightly banded hair, quite unlike her salient 
and assertive daughter; odd, spindle-legged chairs 
brought in the ships from England; a broad oaken 


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I 2 I 


desk and table ; — these completed its austere fur- 
nishings. 

In this parlour sat one morning in October, in 
the year of our Lord 1739, the Silent Lady, its 
mistress, her cousin, Sir Paris Chaters, and their 
friend and guest, General James Oglethorpe, then 
a man of fifty-one, in appearance not more than 
forty, of a fine forcible bearing, yet of winning and 
lovable aspect. He had a very open, animated face, 
with high, delicate, somewhat aquiline nose, short, 
arched upper lip, and very large, full, eloquent eyes. 
It was the face of a man who could leave a home 
of wealth and cultivation, and friends among the 
brightest and best of England’s great ones, to cross 
the ocean in little sailing-vessels and found in a 
wild land, among wild animals and Indians, a home 
— a refuge — for the oppressed of old Europe, out- 
casts of her bigoted realms; the poor debtor, the 
persecuted for conscience’ sake. 

The subject of conversation among these three 
was the placing of Diana’s affairs on a practical 
basis; and till that young lady herself should join 
them, little could be done toward deciding matters. 
Hastie had written on her tablets, for the general, 
some account of the miserable affair at Charles 
Town. Sir Paris had, as requested, glanced at this 
through his glasses, nodded his head, and added de- 
tails as he thought necessary. 

“ You will understand my position in the matter, 
sir,” he appealed to the general. “ I have less 
authority with my niece than I should have with 
yourself; for you at least might mark me while 
I was speaking, and take heed what words I 
uttered, if it were only to rail upon them. But she 


122 


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actually hears me not at all, when I say aught that 
crosses her fancy.” 

The general gave smiling assent. “ Young people 
who have not been disciplined by their parents,” 
he said, “ must frequently be disciplined by life. 
’Tis often the richest nature which falls into the 
wildest insurrection and excesses.” 

Sir Paris sighed, and contemplated his immacu- 
late finger ends. “ Reasoning in that manner,” he 
agreed, somewhat dryly, “ my niece Diana certainly 
possesses an extremely rich character. The scenes 
which we had, both before and after this lamentable 
happening, were certainly rich in themselves.” 

“ My memory of Sir Hector,” Oglethorpe said, 
“ leads me to think this fair daughter is her father 
over again, and that, had she been born a son — ” 

Sir Paris interrupted, lightly, “ O, a man — a 
blade — may flicker through many a coil, and push a 
wild prank to a respectable conclusion. But a petti- 
coat — when a petticoat goes snapping through such 
a ravel — ” 

There was silence for a moment, and then Sir 
Paris suggested, mildly: 

“ You think, perchance, my dear friends, that I 
came out quite ill in this matter.” 

“ I do not.” Hastie’s pencil clicked angrily, and 
she held what she had written (very large) up de- 
fiantly for both men to read. 

The general did not express himself. It is pos- 
sible that he imagined himself would have acted 
differently in the circumstances, but was tolerantly 
willing to believe that Sir Paris had adopted the 
course which he did for excellent reasons. 

The baronet’s anxious, near-sighted eyes studied 


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123 

the message, and beamed a response of gratitude to 
the writer. “ Why, I think those who love me will 
say that, while not a man-queller, nor in any sense 
war-fain, I am not quite without manly feeling. 
But here, mark you, was no place for a man. I 
could not restrain her from the acquaintance itself 
in the first place, nor from the marriage which was 
planned. I could only march up and fight, like a 
hired bravo, a person whom I should have excluded 
from the house — had it been mine to do so.” 

“ You were correct in your stern course,” wrote 
Hastie, as before. 

“ Why, as to its being stern,” deprecated the other, 
“ I merely took to my bed — and let my niece pack 
me up and bring me here, as she brought other 
of the household gear — ” 

“ Here comes the lady,” interrupted General Ogle- 
thorpe, rising to his feet, and going forward to meet 
Diana as she entered. 

“ Diana, my dear, you remember General Ogle- 
thorpe,” began Sir Paris, nervously. “ The general 
hath been advised of your — of our distress, and 
he is most — most kind — ” the poor baronet went 
on, flinchingly. It was plain he was always in fear 
of his niece; as evident that this fear was known 
to her and irritated her to displays of harshness. 
She came forward very graciously, first curtsying 
to the general, then giving him her hand. 

“ I remember General Oglethorpe very well,” she 
said, “ and have never known him aught but 
kind. The first time I saw you, sir, although I was 
too large a girl to do so, I sat upon your knee and 
begged you for sweets, and you suffered me to hear 
your great watch tick. I have never forgotten the 


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1 24 

watch,” with a sudden and very bewitching little 
smile. “ You told me that the ticking was made 
by a lad upon the inside with a hammer, and I 
believed it.” 

“ It is ever the way of our sex,” returned the 
general, “ to profess that we be able to teach the 
other.” 

“ And the way of ours,” returned Diana, archly, 
“ to profess to be greatly taught. I have been look- 
ing forward,” she went on, “ to this interview with 
you. Perhaps my cousin and my uncle have told 
you of my most lamentable case, and how that I 
fled to Savannah for an asylum. I would cast in 
my lot here with your people. I will never willingly 
set foot again in Charles Town.” 

“ We shall be glad, most assuredly,” returned the 
general (and had she listened there was a gentle 
reproof in the emphasis), “ for the addition of your 
uncle and yourself to the society of Savannah.” 

“ I have ordered sold my house in Charles Town,” 
she went on, unheeding, “ and shall dispose of my 
beautiful properties, including an indigo plantation 
just started on the Ashley River. I shall sell the 
interest I have in the filature at Silk Hope. I brought 
my horses and my servants down. Though I know 
you do not permit slavery in the Georgia colony, I 
suppose that house servants come not within your 
proscription.” 

Sir Paris sat leaned back in his chair, watching 
his niece and listening with half-closed eyes to her 
statement of her affairs, which so belittled himself, 
her uncle and guardian. Hastie, her tablets in her 
hand, regarded all three with a sardonic smile. 

“ I have some worthy friends in Charles Town,” 


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125 

the general observed. “ I have much hope that the 
colony of Carolina will assist us in our expedition 
against the Spaniards at Augustine.” 

“ You will have those fellows down here, you 
mean — ” began Diana, hastily, “ the militia ? ” 

“ I will if I can induce them to come,” returned 
Oglethorpe, mildly. “ The life not alone of the 
Georgia colony is endangered by this threat of 
Spanish invasion; but, as most of us believe, the 
entire coast is menaced. Charles Town itself may 
be attacked — and further up — and inland — Vir- 
ginia — the colonies of New England. ’Tis no small 
matter to hold the gateway against a foe so power- 
ful and so encroaching; and yet it is what Georgia, 
young and feeble as she is, hath set out for to do.” 

“ I did not realise,” returned Diana, thoughtfully, 
“ that we were coming south into the very midst 
of a war ; and yet — and yet, now it is done, I am 
right glad we did so. Oh, General Oglethorpe, I 
would I were a man! You would have one trusty 
blade to you.” 

“ Aye,” said the general, smiling, “ and if you 
were such a man as your father before you, ’twould 
be equal to ten of the ordinary sort.” 

“ Show her your maps, Jamie,” prompted Sir 
Paris, dropping back into the familiar address of 
school-days. “ I thought the tales you told me of 
St. Simons Island and your Highlanders were most 
romantical. ’Tis a story to divert a maid certainly.” 

General Oglethorpe drew out a roll from his 
pocket, spread the maps upon the table, and the four 
gathered about them. His heart was most engaged 
with the garrisoning for defence, and rendering im- 
pregnable, this beautiful coast with its wonderful 


126 


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chain of sea islands, and once launched upon the 
theme he talked well and earnestly; Diana Chaters 
putting in now and again a comment or suggestion 
pregnant and pointed, or asking a question which 
brought forward the fact that her keen mind had 
well-nigh grasped entire his scheme and its possi- 
bilities. 

“ This colony of Georgia/’ the general said, 
“ bridles the Spaniard in America, and defends the 
English American frontiers. Spain’s policy is ever 
a double dealing one. In Augustine they welcome 
runaway slaves from the English colonies ; the 
more, if the negroes have murdered their masters. 
They have made a regiment of them, officers and 
all, on the footing and pay of their regular army.” 

Sir Paris’s long white fingers dropped very 
lightly, but suddenly, on Oglethorpe’s arm, and his 
soft voice interrupted with, “ Will you taste this 
East India of Cousin Hastie’s with me, Jamie? ” 

But as the general looked up in surprise, Sir 
Paris’s glance silently led his to where Junius, tray 
in hand, stood arrested and listening intently. 

With an almost imperceptible nod of intelligence 
to Sir Paris which merged itself into the bow as 
he took his glass of wine, Oglethorpe resumed. 

“ It is the policy of both France and Spain to 
exterminate the English confederated Indians, with- 
out regard to treaty. These tribes surround us, they 
are our bulwark, and if the Spanish be allowed to 
destroy them one by one in times of peace, the 
colonies, at the first war, must fall as ripe grain 
to their sickle.” 

“ With Spain ’tis always war,” Diana commented, 
sharply. “ Her peace is ever sheer treachery.” 


return 


127 

“ These Indians come to me — poor children — 
for protection. They long since swore allegiance to 
the king, and they offer me always their fighting 
men, good soldiers, too, and scouts unmatched.” 

“ I am told that the women, then, make the crops 
which support your allies,” suggested Sir Paris. 

“Why, no,” returned Oglethorpe, “not just so; 
for the Cherokees, who were most willing to send 
me a body of fighting men, were so destroyed by 
rum and smallpox, carried up to them by unprin- 
cipled traders, that when I met them but now at 
Fort Augusta, they declared that if they stayed not 
at home to till their maize-fields this year, they must 
surely starve and die next. Yet they were most 
willing to fight the Spanish with me; so I ordered 
corn to be purchased to the amount — ” 

“ I will help ! ” cried Diana, eagerly. “ If I can- 
not wield a sword or fire a musket, I may buy corn 
to feed those who can.” 

“ Indeed, and so shall,” Oglethorpe assured 
her, heartily. “ The rub is ever there. We have 
so much to do, and such straitened means. I am 
grown avaricious, I fear, like him who was called 
‘ good fellow ’ and ‘ free-hearted companion ’ in his 
youth, but being come to years, and suited with a 
most numerous, helpless, and ever-hungry family, 
shows as a miser, a niggard, so eager and so care- 
ful. When the poor, ragged, dishonoured peace 
between the nations was at last broke, and our gov- 
ernment wrote me to proceed to annoy the Spanish, 
I bethought me joyfully that at least those monies 
which had been designed to purchase presents for 
the Spanish, in case we had made a treaty with them, 
could now be laid out in powder and shot.” 


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“ Which an Englishman could with better heart 
present to Spaniards,” laughed Diana; and Gen- 
eral Oglethorpe, smiling, returned to his maps with : 

“ So, there in Augustine, the Spanish sit and 
show their teeth at us. Now and again they sally 
out and drive our cattle away, demolish our houses 
or fortifications, or incite our own Indians to re- 
bellion; while those Indians whom they have en- 
listed are ever ready for depredation in their own 
ghastly fashion. Now, if we can do no more with 
these fortifications and these warlike demonstra- 
tions, we can keep the Spaniards to their own 
ground, and bid them beware of encroaching upon 
ours.” 

“ I see, I see,” commented Diana, thoughtfully. 
“ It would not do to crouch here in Savannah and 
let the dons march into our own country. We are too 
weak for that.” She spoke exactly as though she 
were the general’s aide or lieutenant, and he smiled 
affectionately at her earnest young face. 

“ You would have made a bonny fighter, young 
mistress,” he said. “ And yet, being a man, I cannot 
regret that you are not one.” 

The old look of brooding anger came back to her 
forehead. “ Were I a man,” she answered him, 

I would have one bit of business to transact, and 
then I’d be for you, general. But the men of my 
family are all dead,” and she glanced rebelliously 
at Sir Paris, where he traced upon the map, with a 
long pallid forefinger, the course of a little creek 
down whose silent, hidden waters few save Indians 
had. ever floated. Brought back once more to the 
subject of her own griefs, Diana leaned forward and 
put a hand upon the general’s arm. 


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1 29 

“ Did you ever hear of any maid being so treated 
— -any lady, that is? I have heard of such things 
being done to common people.” 

“ Why, as to that,” Oglethorpe answered, quietly, 
“ I think the heart of one woman will ache in about 
the same manner that the heart of another woman 
does ; and I have heard of such things as this before, 
Mistress Diana. Men, in their overblown pride, are 
ofttimes very cruel to those who are defenceless.” 

“ Aye, ’twas that ! ’twas that ! ” cried Diana, with 
scarlet cheeks. “ I had no defender. Had there 
been one sword between me and this disgrace — ” 

“ Well, what then, dear girl?” questioned Ogle- 
thorpe, gently. “ Had there been one sword between 
you and this thing which happened, it is likely that 
Archibald Cameron would have kept his plighted 
word, and that you would now be his wretched wife. 
Can you not thank God that this thing is not so? ” 

“ I had not thought of that,” answered Diana, 
musingly. Then with sudden energy, “ Nay, you 
are mistaken, sir. I had rather be the wife of a 
fiend from the pit, than to be put to this public 
disgrace. I could have slit his throat in his sleep, 
and so been rid of him.” 

This speech brought both Diana’s relatives to their 
feet; but the general, raised a hand remonstrantly. 
“ Let her say it,” he urged. “ Let her speak out 
what thoughts are in her; ’tis better so, believe 
me.” 

Hastie wrote upon her tablets, “ I feel myself at 
fault, to put a guest in my house to the pain of 
hearing this silly girl rave. But if you will listen 
to her, why, you know best, and I will say no more.” 

The general bowed low in handing back the tablet, 


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and turning to Diana took her hand. He was well 
aware that the opposition and shrinking which she 
saw in the faces of her kinspeople drove her con- 
tinually to these violent extremes. 

“ Now,” he said, “ my dear lady, daughter of 
my dead friend, say what you will. I am ready to 
listen. And, if there is aught to be done, I am 
ready to do it.” 

So full and free a permission closed at once the 
flood-gates of Diana’s eloquence. In point of fact, 
she well knew that he had been given an account 
of the matter, and she had nothing to say to him. 
It was only that she was steeped to the lips in the 
pain, shame, rage, and disgrace of the thing which 
had been put upon her, and it was difficult for her 
to hold her mind to the contemplation of any other 
subject. It was plain that Sir Paris’s feeble attempts 
to stem the tide had accelerated it ; Hastie’s contemp- 
tuous indifference had moved Diana to try if possible 
to shock her into some expression. But this man’s 
kindly, tolerant,, human attitude quite outfaced her. 

“ No,” she said, “ let us talk of something that is 
worth while. Let us discuss once more your plans for 
Fort St. Simons and the town of Frederica. I have 
an idea which I fain would set forth to you, of how 
such a fort as yours — if it lie low enough — could 
be vastly strengthened for defence by letting of the 
tide-water into its moat, and setting gates to hold 
it there. My father used to* explain such things 
to me, (a naval officer gets some experience in those 
matters,) and I have never forgotten.” 

There followed a half-hour’s earnest talk over the 
map, Sir Paris now and then putting in a fribbling 
comment, Hastie once or twice writing a query. 


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131 

Diana’s force, her alert intellect with its masculine 
bent, showed plainly. At the end of this time, the 
general pushed the maps aside, and said : 

“ Enough of this. I have your affairs more at 
heart really just now, and I came to-day to offer 
you a house which Mr. Maybank built in Savannah, 
and which his death and the departure of his widow 
for England has left vacant. It is a house of too 
much pretension to be readily rented in so new a 
colony as ours, and I think it will house you com- 
fortably, if not luxuriously. The garden is one of 
its chief beauties, and in that I am sure Mistress 
Diana will take much delight.” 

“ A garden ! ” commented Diana, briefly. “ I have 
a good gardener with me, an African, and a remark- 
ably skilful man with the plants of this country.” 

“ Oh, a garden ! ” echoed Sir Paris. “ I shall 
exist in that garden. I delight in odours and 
colours; ’tis the one thing which makes this deso- 
late land fit to live in — that its flowers bloom the 
year round.” 

Oglethorpe cast a swift, humourous glance toward 
Mistress Wynnewoode to observe if she noted this 
quaint reversal of the interest which the age and 
sex of these two would have led one to expect. 

“ You should not be there alone,” the general 
suggested. “ It is possible that Mistress Wynne- 
woode might — ” 

He broke off, for Hastie was writing on her slate 
with angry rapidity. “ I came to America, as you 
know, ten years ago,” she pencilled. “ I went into 
the home of these two. My Cousin Hector was but 
lately deceased; Diana was ten years old. A more 
intemperate, unmanageable child it has never been 


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I3 2 

my lot to see. I resided in that house five years. 
At the end of that time, Diana was five years older 
and five-fold worse. I have, as you also know, been 
three years at Wynnewoode Hall. Here I have had 
peace, and I am not going back into war.” 

With a look too grim for a smile, and which yet 
held some amusement, Diana watched her cousin 
write, and observed the general reading. She would 
have been as little willing to accept Hastie for a 
member of her household as that lady would have 
been to occupy the position. 

“ My dear child,” urged the general, a there must 
be some woman with you. You will be very lonely.” 

“ I have my negresses,” returned Diana, “ and 
occupation in the management of my household. 
Were I a man, I should have enough to divert me 
outside. As it is, I must find entertainment within 
doors ; and I shall do so.” 

The general looked helplessly at Hastie as he 
handed her tablets back. He so plainly desired to 
remonstrate with her, that she turned them and 
wrote upon the other side, “ No, no, it would never 
do. I could never abide the girl then; now, stewed 
as she is in her own woes, full of bitterness and 
complaint, it would not take more than one day to 
bring about an explosion which would destroy such 
good feeling between us as we are both now anxious 
to preserve.” 

“ There is a young woman,” the general sug- 
gested, finally, “ who acted as housekeeper to Mis- 
tress Maybank, and teacher of her children. She 
is a superior person, I should think ; a Scotchwoman, 
of Glasgow, I believe; and it is possible that she 


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133 

might remain with those who take the house. She 
is now in charge of it.” 

“ I would keep her,” returned Diana, indiffer- 
ently, “ if ’tis your mind that it would look better 
to do so; but she must understand that in my own 
house my word is paramount. I will not have such 
a housekeeper as I have seen, who ruled the entire 
establishment and the mistress as well.” 

“ It would certainly be much more seemly,” qua- 
vered Sir Paris. “ I have ever thought that the thing 
which happened would not have happened if some 
woman of mature years had been in the house to 
counsel you, Diana, upon such matters.” 

“ The thing which happened would not have hap- 
pened,” quoted Diana, mimicking his speech, “ if I 
had had an uncle who was known to be a man to 
reckon with. Do you think, sir, that I am going 
to hire a woman to advise me in my love-affairs ? ” 

“ You would be wise to do so,” wrote Hastie, and 
held the slate grimly toward her. 

So apt was the check, that Diana was halted for 
an instant; and the three of them had time to 
observe how unseemly was this family wrangle in 
the presence of a guest. 

“ I entreat your pardon, General Oglethorpe, and 
I will ask you to arrange with this lady — you said 
she was a lady, did you not ? — to remain with me. 
If later I do not like her, she may go, and I shall 
be not unwilling to pay her for that time and trouble 
which she wastes upon me. So much for my affairs. 
And now, of yours, which are those of all the coun- 
try. I beg that, when I have this home of my own 
in Savannah, you give me to do something for your 
expedition against Augustine. A woman cannot 


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lead a company, but pray suffer me to outfit one 
from my own means. Or, if your officers find diffi- 
culty in getting temporary places for to remain in, 
you may quarter any of those who may not come 
from Charles Town in my house, and I will see that 
they are well entreated while under its roof.” 

“ Your offer is most welcome,” returned the gen- 
eral, “ and most gratefully accepted.” The orderly 
from the guard-boat here arrived to say that the 
tide was full and the captain must be making sail 
shortly. Oglethorpe, as he bade her farewell, said, 
smilingly, “ I shall have you as ardently interested 
in the matter as myself before long.” 

Leaving Sir Paris and Diana in the drawing- 
room, Hastie followed the general to the outer door, 
and detained him a moment to give him one little 
message more upon her tablets. 

“ You are a wonderful man,” it read. “ I have 
never seen Diana Chaters, in speaking to any one, 
appear so well nor utter so much sense as she has 
in the last hour, talking to you; and she began in 
a most monstrous silly frame of mind.” 

The general read these lines with a deprecating 
glance and half-pained smile, saying, “ I observed, 
after I had been talking with the young lady a very 
few minutes, that it was difficult for her mind to 
take account of aught save the humiliation to which 
she had been put.” 

“ She is a most perfectly selfish person,” pencilled 
Hastie ; “ and her own concerns ever blot out to 
her eye the concerns of the universe.” 

“ Are you not too severe? ” inquired the general. 
“ It was but natural, methinks, that it should be so 
with her. When you snatch an orange from a child, 


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135 

’tis, to that infant intelligence, as though you plucked 
the sun from the heaven, and its sky is dark with 
anger and despair. For me, I have but introduced 
to this ailing mind a subject upon which I display 
perhaps as foolish a fondness. I am, like the poor 
child herself, so full of my own affair that I can 
talk sensibly upon no other. This, mind you, was 
her war, — a war in which she had been most cruelly 
worsted and made to drink, clean to the lees, the 
bitter cup of vanquishment. The first blow struck 
a petted, spoiled child, seems to it an outrage for 
which the whole universe should be answerable ; and 
I think, considering these things, the unhappy young 
maid has done quite well. I pray you to confess, 
now, that had she not much force and nobility she 
would have flung my expedition and my garrisons, 
my base of supplies, feigned attacks, advances in 
echelon, and all my paraphernalia of war, at my 
head, to speak figuratively, and returned incontinent 
to her griefs.” 

Hastie merely shifted her tablet so that the first 
sentence she had written, “ You are a wonderful 
man,” was exposed once more, drew a dash under 
it, and smilingly led the way toward the avenue 
which conducted downward to the landing. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


FROM FAR COUNTRIES 

“ ‘ O pity on me ! O pity ! ’ said she, 

‘ That my love was so lightly won ! 

To leave my poor father and follow thee, 
So far from Glasgow town.’ ” 


ENERAL OGLETHORPE, as representa- 



tive of the Trust in the Province of Georgia, 


had many strange negotiations thrust upon 
him, and numerous curious decisions to make. The 
Indians, and his humble trust-servants and bene- 
ficiaries, alluded to him as the father of the colony; 
and many domestic broils and neighbourhood disa- 
greements found soothing at his hands. 

The lack of wives for those single men who were 
in a position to take care of a wife was ever 
pressing; and he frequently voiced this need to the 
trustees and others. Where there was any mar- 
riageable woman within his immediate circle, he was 
always applied to for her by a dozen or more postu- 
lant husbands; so that, though Lit Buckaloo and 
her father belonged in no sense to the colony, it 
is not strange that Francis Bennerworth should have 
thought it worth while to enlist the general’s good 
offices in his favour. 


136 


RETURN 


137 

“ Her father is the proper man for you to speak 
to,” the general deprecated. 

“ But he is away at Yamacraw,” Bennerworth 
objected, “ and she will not see me nor listen to 
me ; and I fear — She has so many other suitors. 
Pray, General Oglethorpe, do you tell her at least 
of any good thing you can in my favour, and that 
I would amend me of my faults for her sake, and 
make a most proper husband.” 

“ Why, as to that,” the general responded, kindly, 
“ the most suitable arrangement will be for you to 
come here, and let me send for the maid, and talk 
it over.” 

This arrangement resulted in Lit’s going with 
the general the next morning to the pretty green 
place called the Public Gardens, where, as he in- 
formed her, there was one who wished a few 
moments’ private speech with her. 

“ ’Tis Frank Bennerworth,” she said, drawing 
back, a little pale, and most unwilling. 

“ Why, yes,” the general agreed, “ it seems you 
know what he would be saying.” 

“ ’Tis no use, General Oglethorpe,” the girl ob- 
jected. “ Nay, after all, I will not turn back. I 
will hear him — once.” 

Lit, remember, was half Indian, and totally un- 
educated. It is small wonder that this match seemed 
to the general an excellent one for her, since Benner- 
worth was a man of birth, well educated, and very 
pleasing, a bright fellow when he chose to be, and 
one that could easily make his way in this new land. 
Something of this the general said to her, as they 
walked together toward the gate leading to the 
Gardens. 


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138 

On their way they passed a young fellow in 
uniform who gave the general a military salute. 
Lit recognised in him the hero of the miniature 
episode, and made some inquiry of the general con- 
cerning him. 

“ ’Tis Lieutenant Robert Marshall, new come 
from Virginia to assist this colony in the war which 
was declared a month ago. I have the less need for 
your father’s services — which were denied me, on 
account of his private affairs — because this young 
man chances to understand Creek very well indeed, 
and I am leaving him here to treat with the reen- 
forcement as they come down.” 

“ I think you know,” Lit began, after a slight 
hesitation, “ that I would always be ready to make 
myself useful as interpreter. My Indian blood,” 
she added, bitterly, “ might be made to serve a 
good turn there, if nowhere else. But a maid, 
General Oglethorpe, must go where her father tells 
her.” 

“Aye,” the general agreed, “ but this arrange- 
ment which I now desire you to consider, would 
keep you here in Savannah, or at hand, where you 
might be indeed most useful to the king’s arms.” 

“ The trouble is,” Lit returned, frankly, “ that I 
know what like a drunken man may be.” 

“ O, as to the drinking,” Oglethorpe returned, 
gravely, “ that is a serious matter, my child, and 
one in which you do well to be particular. But 
this young fellow promises that all shall be changed, 
and I have ever found him a man of his word.” 

“ To you ! ” burst out Lit, half-angry, half-laugh- 
ing. “ Aye, a man will find a way to keep his 
word to a man. There’s honour in it, d’ye see? 


return 


139 

But his vows to a woman flow as easily as the breath 
it takes to make ’em — and are worth as much.” 

The general here opened the gate for her, saw 
her through, and that Bennerworth rose from a 
bench where he had been sitting and hurried for- 
ward to greet her. Then he turned and went down 
the street to the house of Colonel Maybank, to 
arrange for its being let to Diana. 

The social codes for ladies, and for simple maids 
like Lit Buckaloo, differed considerably, and she 
might have her interview with her lover without 
chaperonage. The general glanced back once, and 
observed that the man had caught the girl’s hand 
and was speaking eagerly. 

“ The poor maid is ill placed with her father,” 
he said to himself, — “a man whose loyalty, even, 
I have mistrusted. It would be well if this young 
man can persuade her to wed him, and remain here 
in Savannah amid more civilised surroundings. 
She is a good child, and might indeed be useful 
to this settlement in treating with the Indians,” and 
his kindly mind ran on to plannings for the future 
of the young people, as though that future were 
already decided. 

Back in the Garden, the courtship was speeding 
ill. “ I tell you, Lit,” urged Bennerworth, half- 
pathetically, half-fiercely, “ if you do not take me, 
the devil will.” 

“ Oh, lad, lad,” returned Lit, her brown eyes full 
of trouble, “ that is a man all over ! Who am I, 
to keep the devil off you? The way of the thing 
would be that I should take you, and then he’d 
foreclose, and the two of us could never own the 
same man.” 


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140 

“ How cold you are!” Bennerworth cried, the 
tears in his big sensitive eyes. “ I never thought 
to hear you use such words to me, and push me 
away from you like that.” 

“ God knows,” the girl faltered, “ this is the only 
defence I have. I will never marry a man — no, no, 
no, I never will ! — that has the drink devil a-holt 
of him. Dad is enough for me of that sort.” 

“ Why, Lit ! You laughed about your father 
being so drunk the other night that he could not 
get home and slept on the doorstep of Ashburnham 
House.” 

“ O, yes,” returned the girl, bitterly, “ I laughed. 
Where was the good of crying? But, mind you, 
Frank Bennerworth, if I laughed at it, ’twas my 
soul wept the harder.” 

“Lit! Lit! I do not know you when you look 
at me like that, and speak so,” her lover said. 
“ Why, all the men hereabout drink. Tis the way* 
living in a rough new country like this. No 
one thinks aught of it, except to laugh about it, 
as you did. Why, sweetheart, I helped Sir Paris 
home the other night from supping with Major 
Bailie, and twas a mercy I was sober myself, for 
the poor gentleman knew as little which foot 
to put before the other as he did what quarter of 
the globe his own inn might lie in.” 

“Well, drink then,” choked Lit, fiercely, “ and 
be drunken, and be beasts if you like! But don’t 
come after a poor lass that has had her heart scalded 
with it, asking her to prop you out of the mud, 
when you tell her you want to fall into it.” 

“ Didn’t I promise,” Bennerworth asked, in a 


somewhat injured tone, “ that I would give up the 
drink for your sake ? ” 

“Lord! Lord!” commented Lit, sadly, “if a 
clerk would write on fair white paper all the prom- 
ises men have made to women that they would give 
up the drink when once they were wed, methinks 
’twould belt the earth. And a mourning band ’twould 
be. I tell ye, Frank, ye know naught of my father. 
You see him drink here among his mates. Down 
at the horse place on Cumberland, or the plantation 
on the St. Mary’s, he hath savage times when he 
is both drunk and mad, and God knows which the 
most. ’Tis not alone that I am afraid for my life 
afraid for it, did I say ? I have wished many 
a time he would kill me — but there is the little 
lad, my brother. Dad loves him as the apple of 
his eye. He would cut himself — or me either — 
in mince-meat to pleasure him ; and yet Salequah’s 
life has been in danger, too. And when I told Dad 
of it — when he was sober and came to his senses 
he wept like a bairn, and called God to witness 
that he would never drink again. Think you I 
have not heard such vows as those you wish to make 
to me? Nay, have an end of it; I’ll hear no more. 
My heart is too soft.” 

“ Yes,” agreed Bennerworth, miserably, “ ’tis that 
I fear, Lit. You won’t wed me; but in a year or 
two I’ll see you wedding some other fellow, and that 
I cannot bear.” 

“ A year or two ? ” laughed Lit. “ Why for should 
I wait a year or two? You may lay every penny 
that you did not spend for drink last night, that I’ll 
marry the best man I can find when I get ready. 
What manner of use would it be having all the lads 


1 42 RETURN 

tagging after me, if I did not take some one of 
them ? ” 

“And then what’s to become of me?” queried 
Bennerworth. 

Lit turned and looked at him darkly ; then some- 
thing in the shamed, humbled figure before her broke 
down the barrier of her resentment. 

“ Oh! Frank,” she cried, bursting into tears, “ we 
be just two poor miserable beings; and I do love 
you, so there! Hear it, lad, and take what comfort 
you may from it ; for I’ll marry no man that drinks, 
and that’s just one kind of misery I’ll not be dragged 
through.” 

Meantime General Oglethorpe walked down St. 
Julian Street to where a three-story house, its base- 
ment of Savannah brick, abutted directly on the side- 
walk. Tall gray flanking walls of tappy gave pri- 
vacy to the garden and dignity to the faqade. The 
doorway showed some architectural pretensions. The 
size of this house was, for the time and place, im- 
posing, and back of it there sloped down to the 
creek an extensive garden, around which the tappy 
wall was carried in the English fashion. 

Within this garden the former owner had at- 
tempted to gather all of the more striking and beauti- 
ful plants and shrubs native to the country, and to 
them added, as occasion offered, rare plants brought 
from the West Indies by the trading sloops, or the 
gifts of some sea-captain from a further port, which 
latter needs must come in the way of seeds or dried 
roots. A tangle of vines hid most of the rough 
grayish-white wall surface. Palmettoes were 
grouped in the corners, with tall sago palms above 
them. 


RETURN 143 

The spot selected had contained already a few 
dozen trees, great live oaks, magnolias, and the 
smaller shrub-like growth of the candleberry myrtle. 
Altogether it was a gorgeous garden ; its thin scanty 
soil reinforced by rich mould from the river bank, 
carried in rush baskets upon the heads of negroes or 
Indians, bore a fair showing of grass; while its 
white shell walks wound among beds of blossoms, 
with seats and arbours scattered about here and 
there. 

The woman in charge of the house, that Agnes 
of whom the general had spoken to Diana, assured 
him that no one had yet taken the place, and told 
him that she herself would be willing to remain with 
the family which did so. She was a spare, under- 
sized, timid-looking creature, with a pair of wonder- 
ful eyes and a nervous fluttering use of her small 
hands, evidently a woman of education, living now 
much beneath the station in life to which she was 
born. 

“ I must tell you of the family with whom you 
will live if you make this arrangement,” said the 
general, kindly. “ Will you not sit, Mistress Mac- 
Bain ? ” But Agnes preferred to stand, leaning upon 
the back of a chair and listening while the general 
described her new employers. 

“ There is an old gentleman,” he began, then 
added, apologetically, “ though not so old, neither. 
I am sure that I should not so miscall him since 
he is but little my senior. Well, then, there is a 
gentleman of about six and fifty, Sir Paris Chaters, 
something of an invalid, most gentle-tempered, and 
interested in antiquarian pursuits. There is his 
niece, Mistress Diana Chaters, a very handsome, 


RETURN 


144 

imperious young- person, who is the monied man 
of the family, having inherited a handsome fortune 
from her mother. She is at present suffering great 
distress of mind; in fact, she came to Savannah to 
escape from a most trying coil. Archibald Cameron, 
a Scotchman, came less than two months ago to 
Charles Town — ” 

Agnes had been standing with her side face to 
the general, her head respectfully bent. Now she 
clutched the chair-back as though to save herself 
from falling, and turned to him such startled eyes 
as he afterwards remembered. “ What name is 
that you would be saying?” she asked. “ Pardon 
me, is it a Scotchman ? ” 

“ Archibald Cameron ? ” inquired the general. 
“ Yes, a young Scotchman, only in this country for 
a year. Is he known to you ? ” 

“ The name is familiar,” returned Agnes, finally. 
“ I am — I have been — you know, searching for 
a brother; and I notice the name of any Scotch 
person who — who might afford me information.” 

Passively accepting this explanation, the general 
continued, “Well, then, this Archibald Cameron, 
who, by the best account which can be made of him, 
is a very great scoundrel, within two weeks of their 
first meeting cozened this poor child into a promise 
of marriage.” 

Agnes MacBain drew a long, shuddering breath, 
and the sight of her groping fingers on the chair- 
back caused the general to rise and place a seat 
for her, assisting her to it and saying, kindly, “ You 
are not well this morning, Mistress MacBain ? ” 

“I — I — ” gasped the woman, faintly. “ And 


return 


145' 

what then, sir? Were they wed? Is it to them you 
are supposing I will be servant ? ” 

“ No. When she went to the church, poor girl, 
this fiend in man’s form sent her word that she 
might wed whom she pleased, since she was so bent 
on wedding; for his own part, he had changed his 

mind, and would none of her.” 

There was silence for so long that it seemed the 
Scotchwoman would make no comment. Finally 
she said, without looking at her listener, “ It is a 
distressing story. The man was a countryman of 

mine. I — what did the lady do then, sir ? Did 
she follow and speak with him — with Major Cam- 
eron ? ” 

“ Follow and speak with him ! ” echoed the gen- 
eral, with some asperity. “ If Sir Paris were not 
an invalid, and in any case a man who hath ever 
avoided a quarrel, he would have followed and 
spoken to the young man to some purpose. Nay, 
Mistress MacBain, the lady, Diana Chaters, is a 
woman of spirit, but the humiliation was more than 
she could support. She gathered her household and 
came down the coast in the Company’s sloop, Good 
Report, and I tell you this sad story, which is un- 
known here in Savannah, because you will be closely 
associated with her; and as you may imagine, her 
temper is still disturned by these happenings, so 
that you must bear with it, if you would be one 
of her household, as you would bear with a sick, 
peevish child. Do you wish to do so? Would 
you rather seek another situation ? Or do you prefer 
to prosecute that search for your brother which 
brought you to this country ? ” 

“ My brother,” repeated Agnes, with an odd ca- 


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146 

dence in her voice; and then again after a long 
pause, “ My brother. I learn, sir, that my brother 
— I — my brother is — ” she broke off, and looked 
nervously about the room, finishing in a sort of half- 
whisper, “ my brother is dead.” 

“ This is most sad and unexpected,” returned the 
general. “ When got you such news ? ” 

“ Quite recently,” Agnes faltered. “ And yet I 
do not feel as though the news were recent, for my 
heart has failed me in this matter for months past, 
and I should be indeed most glad to remain with 
this young lady, if I may be of service, or in some 
measure comfort her who is also in affliction.” 

“ I think your position, aside from the natural 
imperious bent of the young lady, will be satisfactory 
to you,” the general said. “ You will act as house- 
keeper under her direction, and as companion to her, 
since she is singularly and painfully alone. I have 
spoken to her of you, and enlisted her interest. I 
trust that your association with her will be pleasant 
and profitable to both. And now, if you will give 
me a list of the rooms and of such furnishings as 
Mistress Maybank desires to be left with the dwell- 
ing, I think I may be going.” 

As he took up his hat for departure, the general 
paused a moment. “ Before we decide this matter. 
Mistress MacBain, there is another offer — or offers,' 
perhaps I should say — which I should present for 
your consideration.” He paused in some embarrass- 
ment, then went on, smiling slightly, “ That which 
I would speak of is the natural condition of woman : 
marriage, a home, a husband of her own.” 

The truth was that General Oglethorpe, as has 
been said, was besieged and clamoured to by wifeless 


return 


147 

pioneers who did not choose to wed native women ; 
and out of these there might be three or four whose 
station and condition in life would fit them for 
Agnes MacBain’s consideration. Like a politic man, 
he did not put his offer so baldly, but left her with 
the impression that some friends of his, most worthy 
gentlemen, having seen her and been attracted by her 
appearance, were very fain to make her acquaintance 
with a view to matrimony. 

“ Husband ! ” cried Agnes, again that curious drop 
in her voice; then added in a half- whisper, “ a hus- 
band for me? ” 

“ Why not, Mistress MacBain ? ” asked the gen- 
eral, and now he was smiling indeed. “ There is 
nothing strange whatever in the proposition. It is 
surely not the first time you have had such an idea 
suggested to you ? ” 

“ Nay,” said Agnes, “ there is no husband for 
me, I think. I have set my life apart from that of 
others, to this search for — my — brother. And 
now — ” She faltered, took counsel with herself a 
moment, then resumed, “ And now that I find he is 
dead, I — I — Oh ! sir, pray put such ideas out 
of the heads of any men who would associate them 
with me. I am not for them, nor they for me.” 

As the general turned and looked back at the 
kindly faqade of Maybank, which was now to be 
rechristened Chaters House, he saw Agnes Mac- 
Bain’s gray little face at a window, and his mind 
returned to her curious reception of his matrimonial 
proposition. 

“ I am sure an ill messenger for Cupid, or Hymen 
is perhaps the more apt term; and yet I think I 
said it not so ill that it should have offended her. 


RETURN 


148 

I fear she is one of those persons with a death- 
less sorrow, which is generally another name for a 
whimsey that would be better put aside.” And he 
went on down the sunny street toward that quarter 
where the houses of the Company were built, small 
square structures, in one of which he was an occa- 
sional guest, upon such rare times as he stole from 
his more important work at Frederica. 

After Oglethorpe had passed out of sight, the 
woman stood long looking out upon the sandy stretch 
of street. She gazed upon its crudeness and poverty, 
and thought of the beautiful home upon the Clyde 
clad in the greenery of ancient trees and turf, in that 
old Scottish city that gave her birth. From this home 
she had gone forth to follow the footsteps of Archi- 
bald Cameron, hardly herself believing — hardly 
daring to believe — in the idle protestations of one 
of his brief, insolent, fiery love-makings (which had 
fallen sere indeed when he found that old Farfrae 
MacBain’s ships and moneys were not for him, nor 
for Agnes if she wedded him), half dreading that, 
if she found him, she might be unwelcome, yet fol- 
lowing her false star still, because her whole sky 
had been made dark, her whole quiet life unbearably 
empty, by its withdrawal. 

She left behind her a heart-broken father — her 
mother was long since dead — who, since she had 
been frank as to the object of her voyage, declared 
that she might starve in the streets of the new 
world, rather than that a cent of his honestly made 
money should go to further a folly which seemed 
to the stern old Covenanter perilously near disgrace. 

A few steps from her window, an Indian was 
conducting by signs a barter with a negro vender 


of fish. In this picturesque group, Agnes’s narrow, 
conventional mind took account only of the un- 
couthness of dress and gesticulation. Oglethorpe’s 
story was the first word of Cameron she had heard. 
She had come in one of her father’s own ships from 
Glasgow to Charles Town, there being much direct 
shipping between the two places at that time. There 
she had lived for more than a year, husbanding her 
little means, supporting herself as she could, by 
skilled needlework or by teaching young children. 
Cameron was at the time in New York and Virginia, 
but she got no clue of him. And as her inquiries 
were timidly made, and seemed ever to bring her 
somewhat of discredit and suspicion, she embraced 
eagerly the opportunity to go further south into a 
newer colony, hoping she might there find trace of 
him she sought. She joined the family of Mr. May- 
bank, coming through from England to Savannah, 
just one week before chance brought Archibald Cam- 
eron to Charles Town. 

Now, as she stood looking out at the two creatures 
of barbarous race, upon the land so desolately 
foreign and inhospitable to her eye, she realised 
faintly the folly of her quest. Say she had remained 
in Charles Town, and found heart to present her- 
self before the object of her blind passion? Would 
he have stooped to pick up the heart she flung into 
the dirt at his feet? 

She had now not even the dowry which might 
once have attracted him. Ah, no — no — no ! 
While he was making a mock and sport of a beau- 
tiful creature, rich, her junior by many years, her 
superior in rank, what could she hope ? 


CHAPTER IX. 


MAIN YOUNG 

“ A bonnie lad wi’ shoulders broad, 

Gold yellow was his hair; 

Nane o’ our Scottish youths, ava, 

That wi’ him could compare.” 

D IANA CHATERS had settled her household 
in the dwelling on St. Julian Street. Her 
management of the entire affair, once her 
decision was made and the practical details were 
to be gone into, was both admirable and effective. 
Somewhat to the surprise of her uncle and cousin, 
she from the first took what they were pleased to call 
“ a fancy ” to Agnes MacBain. Her own summing 
up of the situation was : — 

“ Agnes is a woman of sense ; she does what she 
is told and does it well, and wastes no words upon 
it. When I find those with whom I am brought 
in contact sensible, competent, and obedient to Me, 
there is no trouble about my giving them a measure 
of my regard. It is only to those who are foolish, 
talkative, bent upon idleness or taking undue author- 
ity with me, that I seem a fury, and so I judge would 
any sensible person seem to them in my position.” 

On the first morning after the installation of her 
household, when Agnes of Glasgow came to make 
150 


return 


151 

her reports and give her young mistress control of 
the exact state of affairs, Mistress Chaters paused 
with an account-book under her long, slender, capa- 
ble fingers, and asked, brusquely, “ You have heard 
the history of why I came to Savannah ? You have 
been told of the doings of that dastardly cur at 
Charles Town? ” 

“ I have,” returned Agnes, in a very low voice. 

I ask because the one woman who is to be near 
me should know of this matter. I am not ashamed 
of it. I should be willing that the whole town knew 
of it — once I have had my revenge.” 

Vengeance is Mine, I will repay/” quoted 
Agnes, in a smothered whisper. 

“What’s that?” inquired Diana, sharply. “Scrip- 
ture? O, I judge you are a Dissenter. They will 
ever be poking a text into the conversation.” 

Agnes, who had been bred a Presbyterian, but 
from whose Calvinism the warning had not pro- 
ceeded, made no reply to this query, and the talk 
turned to domestic matters. 

So thoroughly competent was Agnes of Glasgow, 
so much better acquainted with the markets and the 
manner of living in this new town than Diana, that 
the mistress soon found it convenient to leave the 
whole management of household matters in her 
hands. This would have been well, only that it 
gave the young girl the more time to brood un- 
healthily upon her own situation, and to chafe and 
fret for some outlet for those energies which were 
so pent and fermenting within her as to keep her 
in continual distress. 

She sat one morning in early December in her 
garden. Those few plants which were protected 


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152 

by latticed houses were in bloom, and a warm day 
being promised, the temperature was something 
like a northern spring. The book in her lap did not 
chain her attention. The view which was before 
her, a reach of silver winding creek and the edge 
of her own garden wall, failed to satisfy her. When 
Mistress MacBain came out with the day’s account- 
ing and allotment of tasks to the various servants, 
she listened half-impatiently. 

“ Very well, Agnes,” she said, “ never mind tell- 
ing me about it. I find that you attend to these 
things quite as well as I could myself; and for the 
present at least let us call you the mistress of Chaters 
House.” 

Agnes smiled a little sadly. “ I think it would 
be wholesome for you, Mistress Chaters, to interest 
yourself in these matters.” 

. “ Oh, wholesome ! ” echoed Diana. “ The ques- 
tion is, would it be interesting? I wish Mr. Buc- 
cleugh’s daughter were here. I desire to know from 
her something of the Creek Indians with whom she 
and her father live.” 

“ Her mother was a Creek, so they tell me,” 
Agnes suggested. “ Some say she was old Toma- 
chi-chi’s granddaughter.” 

“ I had well-nigh forgot that Lit is half-Indian,” 
mused Diana. “ Perhaps that is why she and I 
get on so well together. There is wild blood enough 
in the Chaters family to be kin to an Indian chief’s 
great-granddaughter . ” 

“ Here comes the young woman now,” exclaimed 
Agnes, withdrawing, as a canoe with a girl paddling 
it came swiftly up the stream and stopped abreast 
the little landing at the garden’s foot. 


RETURN i 53 

Diana retained her seat upon the bench, and Lit, 
having stepped out and tied her craft, flung herself 
down on the edge of the platform. 

“ I have some news for you, fair Mistress Diana, ” 
she began. “ You told me that the general would 
make your house a stopping-place for some officers 
going through to Frederica; well, he will be send- 
ing three here this morning.” 

“ Yes? ” returned Diana, with the interest Lit al- 
ways aroused in her. “ Agnes has chambers all in 
readiness for them.” 

“ Then you knew of their coming?” Lit asked. 
“ And you have seen ’em ? ” 

“ No, but I understand that two of them are Eng- 
lish gentlemen, one the surveyor who is to lay out 
fortifications for the expedition; and the third 
one — ” 

“ The third one,” Lit interrupted, “ is a pretty 
fellow — oh! the prettiest young fellow you ever 
sa . w * . ! Tis a Lieutenant Robert Marshall, from the 
Virginia colony above. The other two be old, and 
the surveyor-man hath a squint; I take no in- 
terest in him; but this young lieutenant, Mistress 
Diana — ” 

“Well, what of him?” inquired Diana, rather 
shortly. “ I did not want a young man quartered 
in my house.” 

“Why — why — ” began Lit, hesitatingly, “I 
think that there is your mistake. I think you 
do want a young man here — and a very young one. 
They’re main easy caught when they’re as young 
as this one is,” and she looked up at Diana through 
her long, thick, curling, dark lashes. 

“ Caught ! ” echoed Diana, angrily. “ In Charles 


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154 

Town I had my sighing swains by the dozens. I 
could have married twenty times before I met — 
before — ” She broke off, and Lit resumed. 

“ Well, ’tis a month since thy — thy — at the 
church, you know; and the tale will follow you to 
Savannah. What I would say is, marry some man 
before the story comes to this town, and let him 
fight thy battles for thee.” 

“ Marry,” repeated Diana, musingly. “ ’Tis a 
thing of which I have often thought since then. 
And you told me, when first you came to see me, 
that it was the best story I could send to that hound. 
But if I married now, and I could see in the man’s 
face afterward that he had wedded me through 
pity, that he had heard the story of my humiliation, 
methinks I could strike him dead for it. And yet, 
since I cannot wear a sword myself, a husband would 
indeed answer my purpose.” 

“ The lieutenant,” Lit suggested, “ the one I spoke 
of, you know — he is barely come of age, and he’s 
not long here from Virginia. You could be sure 
he had not heard it.” 

“ Well? ” prompted Diana. 

“ Why,” resumed Lit, “ he is young, as I said to 
you, and tall, and well-favoured — oh, a bonny 
fathom of a man ! He is, as you shall see, a — Well 
— he’s very young.” 

“ And what of that? ” Diana questioned again. 

“ I tell you they’re main easy caught when they’re 
so young. . You might have him, you might be 
Mistress Lieutenant in a week for a glint or two 
of those bonny eyes of yours. They’re main easy 
managed when they’re so young,” and she laughed 
like a nymph through her long lashes. 


RETURN i 55 

“ I’ll think of it,” Diana answered, and forthwith 
fell into a brown study. 

Would you mind my slipping off my moccasins 
and dipping my feet in the water here while I talk ? ” 
asked Lit. “ I have tramped eight miles to-day, and 
I long for the feel of the cold water on them.” 

Diana smiled an indulgent assent, and thereafter 
looked down at Lit as she sat dabbling those slim, 
arched brown members in the slow, clear current, 
and realised very fully the beauty of this wild blos- 
som. Lit’s rich hair was bound after the fashion of 
the Indian women, in two plaits, with many bright- 
coloured ribbons entwined in it and holding it in 
place; but, unlike the hair of these aboriginal 
women, it broke from gay fillet and confining braid 
in many short threads of curl about her forehead 
and neck. Her skin was brown as much from ex- 
posure to the weather as from native colour, and 
on the cheek the rich red blushed softly through 
with an indescribable suggestion of warm, vivid, 
pulsating life. Her teeth, white and beautiful, were 
always flashing in smiles, the lips which parted to 
disclose them dewy red, like a cleft pomegranate. 
The chief beauty of her face, however, lay in her 
eyes. Arched above by heavy brows, shaded by a 
child’s thick curling lashes, these were at once 
passionate and merry, the eyes of a dryad. 

“ I would that I had tramped the eight miles 
with you,” remarked Diana, suddenly. “ I am dead 
weary of sitting in this house, and walking about 
this garden — an idle, moped, fine lady. I think 
I should enjoy going back with you to your people, 
and living as they do in tents and wigwams.” 

A deeper red surged up under Lit’s brown skin. 


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156 

“ My people are Scotch,” she said, sullenly, “ and 
they do not live in tents. My father hath built him 
a great house of tappy and stone down on the St. 
Mary’s; and there we entertain the larger part of 
ten tribes of Indians.” She began in anger, and 
ended with a sudden flash of laughter. The Creek 
mother was an old disgrace; and Diana’s allusion 
to it after all perfectly natural. 

“ Shall you be going south soon ? ” asked the 
lady, with persistent interest. “ Your visits are my 
sole diversion.” 

“ Yes, we go now shortly,” Lit replied; “ but you 
will not need my visits after Lieutenant Marshall 
comes.” 

“ I could marry the fellow,” Diana said, speaking 
almost more to herself than to Lit, “ and then, when 
I had his name, I could send him packing.” 

“ Marry him and send him packing! ” Lit echoed, 
in the same abstracted tone. She was putting on 
her moccasins now, and appeared to be addressing 
the shoe she held in her hand. “ Turn him from her 
doors, will she? Yea, when he is a foot shorter, 
and hath not at the bottom of’s face that chin which 
I observed. Mistress Diana Chaters hath met her 
match, for once, when it comes to wilfulness.” 

“ What’s this you say ? ” Diana interrupted her. 
“ He is already prejudiced against me? ” 

“ Oh, no ! ” Lit protested. “ He has his word of 
you from me — is it like that that would put him 
against you? And then I have a sweetheart — or 
two or. three, for the matter o’ that — at the bar- 
racks, in the company which he comes in among; 
’tis made up from our lads all about on the Sea 
Islands here; and I’ve set ’em at him with tales 


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157 

of you ever since he came. He is well inclined to 
love you at first sight.” She rose, untied and pushed 
off her canoe, sprang into it, and held it stationary 
with her paddle. 

“ Why, thank you for your assistance, 1 ” cried 
Diana, laughing. “ You thought I needed it, per- 
haps ? ” 

“ I knew you needed nothing,” returned Lit, with 
a sort of fierce shyness. Philandering with a man 
came natural to her; but paying compliments to 
one of her own sex was a new role. “ I knew you 
needed nothing ; and I ” — poised exquisitely in her 
bark canoe, the stream’s naiad, she swept Diana with 
a half-angry, reluctant, adoring glance — “I but told 
him what my heart’s full of ! ” Then paddled swiftly 
down the creek, followed by a well-aimed flower 
which Diana flung after her with a call of thanks. 

After the sound of Lit’s paddle had died away 
to a mere lisp, Mistress Diana Chaters was taken 
with a wonder as to whether or no she was herself 
as goodly to the eye as this waif of the forest. She 
had been praised all her life for her beauty; and 
yet, tear down the structure of powdered hair upon 
her head, braid it like that, take off the shoes and 
set her paddling with bare feet in the water — would 
she look as well ? She doubted it, and was piqued 
at the doubt. 

With Diana the desire to test a thing was scarcely 
allowed to precede the act of testing it. She dropped 
her book on the shell walk, kilted up her skirts, 
ran to the creek edge, wet her hands in the water, 
and pulled her hair down that she might braid it 
Indian fashion. This done, using the creek for a 
mirror, she adjusted her garments as nearly as she 


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158 

might after the fashion of Lit’s, pulling the bobbin 
which loosed the lacing-string of her very tight 
corselet, so that she could sit and move freely. 

The next thought was of her shoes. “ My feet 
are prettier than hers,” Diana said to herself, “ or 
would be if I had never worn a shoe — and a high- 
heeled one at that.” These reflections were made 
while the high-heeled, pointed slippers were coming 
off, and the silk hose following them. The beauty 
of the feet thus revealed was beyond question. 

“ I wonder if I could bear that cold water on 
them ? ” was the next thought. “ She bore it ; she 
liked it; and I have been all my life a silken fool 
of a fine lady, so that I am too tender for it. We’ll 
see.” Dropping to the landing edge, she dipped 
one shining foot in the water with a little smothered 
shriek. Holding it there by force of will, she soon 
grew accustomed to the coldness. “ Why, ’tis not so 
bad,” she said, wonderingly. “ Dear me, people of 
fashion know not what they miss. Aha, I am a 
wild Indian ! ” and she leaned back, laughing. 
“ Now, if there were only some one here to tell me 
whether I look better than the young squaw did — ” 
. As though she had evoked the audience she de- 
sired, again there whispered a paddle in the creek 
behind her. She drew back with a shiver of appre- 
hension into the little bower of palmetto which 
screened the landing-place, thinking, “ When they 
go past, I can ^et clear of this absurd position.” 

But the boat did not pass on. Instead, it grounded 
at the landing, and Diana, whose back was to it, 
who dared not turn, and scarce dared breathe, felt 
the jar of some one springing out upon the 
planks, and heard a musical voice say : “ Keep 


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1 59 

the boat here, Opelika; I shall be gone but a few 
moments/' 

And then a young man in uniform rounded the 
clump of palmettoes and Diana was discovered. 

How long the two paused staring at each other 
it would be hard to say; but both at the same 
instant finally burst out laughing. “ I am seeking 
Mistress Diana Chaters,” explained the intruder. 
“ I met Sir Paris in the town, and General Ogle- 
thorpe hath sent me here to advise her that he will 
this day quarter three of his officers in her house 
if she consents.” 

“ And you have found Mistress Chaters,” Diana 
returned, “ in a most undignified position, sir.” 
With the words she suddenly remembered her bare 
feet, and drew them back under the hem of her^ 
petticoat. “ I was very moped with polite society 
just now, and I was trying how ’twould be to go 
back to savagery.” 

“ O, I see,” returned the young man, noting the 
dressing of her hair, “ you were playing Indian. May 
I help you back to the civilised world, which I am 
certain misses you sadly ? ” and he extended a hand. 

Diana eyed it an instant, and to his amazement 
shook her head. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, lifting to his 
a very flushed countenance, “ would you mind walk- 
ing on toward the house and — and interesting 
yourself in it while I reduce my costume to a more 
genteel footing ? ” 

At the word “ footing,” which she admitted to 
herself afterward was a most unfortunate one, the 
young man’s glance dropped to the red-heeled slip- 


i6o 


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pers and the hose lying upon the bank, and his 
embarrassment gave way to mirth. 

“ I will relieve you of my presence for the time,” 
he said, with alacrity (she was sure he desired to 
turn his face away that he might laugh), “and I 
trust that you will join me.” 

Diana looked after him as he went toward the 
house. She found him to be rather over than under 
six feet, but so broad of shoulder that his great 
height was not unduly apparent. He had a pinky 
fair complexion, like that of a young girl, which 
the sun burned red instead of brown; blue eyes, 
singularly direct in their regard, and of limpid clear- 
ness; a short, arched, upper lip, which gave an ex- 
pression of almost infantile sweetness to the coun- 
tenance, and yet was capable of a very haughty, 
wilful curve. 

Lieutenant Marshall’s complexion, his silky, fair 
curls, the size and mildness of his blue eyes, were 
things which pleased him not at all — however much 
they might take the fancy of some young girl. But 
the thing that was an unmitigated affliction (or 
things, rather, for this torment went in couples) 
was a pair of very deep dimples which the least 
approach to a smile set playing hide-and-seek in 
his pink cheeks. 

The complexion he bore with such fortitude as 
Heaven sent, sustained by the hope of what a south- 
ern sun might do for it. The hair he covered with 
an uncompromising tie-wig. As for the eyes, he 
contented himself by frowning darkly in his mirror, 
and believing that those who found them other than 
sternly masculine were mistaken. But the dimples, 
the wretched dimples, which had earned him the 


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1 6 1 


nickname of Babe Marshall at school, for the which 
he had fought many a fight, gotten — and given — 
many a black eye, the dimples were not to be sun- 
burned away, nor hid in a wig, and the very setting 
of his lips, with which he frowned infantile softness 
far from his eyes, put these unseemly toys to dancing 
in his cheeks. 

He had been unkindly presented by a brother- 
in-arms, to Captain Quillian, as “ Lieutenant Baby 
Marshall.” The old artillery captain, after once 
seeing him angry on the voyage down from James 
Town, had commented : 

“ By the Lord Harry ! Marshall, if your enemies 
call you baby, they will find you a very cross one, 
and a cross baby I am ready to swear, as a family 
man — one who has struggled through the midnight 
surprises, feints, repulses, ambuscados, and charges- 
home of six of ’em — a cross baby is a most un- 
pleasant person to deal with.” 

Now the young officer found himself with ample 
leisure to examine the great vine of rosa florabunda 
which wreathed and garlanded the main entrance 
of the mansion, before a slightly breathless voice be- 
hind his shoulder remarked : 

“ This is Lieutenant Marshall, I think? I was 
so put about by my appearance when you discovered 
me down there that I failed to inquire.” 

He turned to see Diana, her slippers replaced, but 
the great braids of brown hair hanging down her 
back like a schoolgirl’s, and the stiff formality of 
her costume considerably ameliorated by them. 
The picture of her sitting there with her feet in 
the water, and later the glimpse he had had of her 
running up the walk, and tossing back a rebellious 


162 


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braid that chose to fall in front of her shoulder, 
never left him during their after acquaintance. Fate 
or Chance had chosen that he should meet her as 
none other had ever done, quite off her guard, un- 
bent. That she seemed always to him afterward 
a child, must have been part of this. Now, he was 
surprised to find her so tall, and that she was actually 
a full-grown young lady; not, as he had at first 
supposed, a beautiful hoiden of fifteen or there- 
about. 

“ I was so bedazzled by the picture you had pre- 
pared for my reception,” he said, bowing formally, 
“ that I forgot to present my credentials,” and he 
handed her the general’s note. 

Diana laughed and blushed at thought of the 
picture she must have offered, and it was to two 
very pleased-looking young people that Mistress 
Agnes MacBain opened the door. 

Diana herself showed her guest to the rooms which 
had been prepared, instead of sending, as she would 
ordinarily have done, a servant to attend him, or 
at best deputing it to her housekeeper. After a 
glance in the chimney-glass, she also put by Agnes’s 
suggestion that she might be excused to make some 
change in her costume. She had stopped a moment 
before entering the house, to pick a cluster of late 
roses. One of them now nestled above her ear, and 
the other adorned the lapel of the young lieutenant’s 
coat. Agnes smiled bitterly as they passed her upon 
the stairway, laughing and in full play of the compli- 
ment and disclaimer of that age. 

“ Ah, Archie, Archie ! ’Tis not every heart you 
have wounded that remains faithful as did mine.” 

And after the young man was gone, Diana, alone 


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163 

in her room — no longer the bored, indifferent Diana 
of the morning — reviewed the suggestions to which 
Lit had reverted, and which had, indeed, been lying 
in her mind ready to bear fruit since they were first 
made on the evening of that terrible day in Charles 
Town. 

For no reason which she could have assigned, Lit 
had abstained from telling Diana that the young 
lieutenant to be quartered in Chaters House was the 
owner and original of the miniature which had taken 
the lady’s fancy upon an earlier occasion. So now 
Diana was left to transfer that fleeting suggestion 
of remembrance, that sensation of having known the 
newcomer in some previous incarnation, to Marshall 
himself. To be sure, he was an image most fit and 
proper to occupy a young maid’s dreams; but in 
this case there was added to his natural attractions 
this haunting memory, the flying fringes of which 
she vainly strove to grasp, and which kept her re- 
calling his every glance and attitude till she fell 
asleep. 

She brought back before the eye of her recollection 
the face of the young lieutenant, — a not unpleasing 
task, and one very natural for a young spinster after 
meeting Robert Marshall for the first time. Was he 
not the man to her purpose ? She thought so. Despite 
his six feet and his military bearing, there was a joy- 
ous and childlike abandon in his manner, an eager 
credulousness in the big blue eyes, which made her 
feel his elder, and conceive the possibility of dom- 
inating him. 

He was plainly of family and breeding, . person- 
ally presentable as well — though on this latter 
point she professed to herself a great indifference; 


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164 

then at once sharply reminded herself that if he 
were not all these things, a fit and proper match 
in every way for Mistress Diana Chaters of Chaters 
House, people were like to say that she took him 
up for spleen. Nay, after all, she was glad of all 
his good looks and pleasing ways. They would be 
useful to her in the future. 


CHAPTER X. 


THE LIMING OF TWIGS 

“ The god of love sat on a tree 
And laughed that pleasant sight to see.” 

T HE evening of the same day brought Master 
Paul Kilsyth, the surveyor (called by 
courtesy Lieutenant Kilsyth), and Captain 
Paynter Quillian, an English officer of much dignity 
and middle age, with their servants and luggage. 

Master Matthew Zubley, Diana’s steward, who 
had closed up such of her affairs as he could in 
Charles Town, had come down by the same brig 
which brought the captain, and which had but 
touched at Charles Town. Diana gave a passing 
thought to the possibility that her steward had in- 
formed the gentlemen of her own affairs; but just 
at present her efforts to please young Marshall 
rendered her uncommonly gracious to all about her, 
and this graciousness of manner could not but react 
upon her spirit itself, and induce in her a greater 
amiability than was usual. 

She had planned to open her campaign with the 
young lieutenant that evening after dinner, when 
the stars were out and the garden a very proper place 
for such use. There, indeed, the gentlemen repaired 
to smoke in its arbours. But she was detained by 


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1 66 

Master Zubley, who was anxious to urge upon her 
the laying out of an indigo plantation to the south- 
ward of Savannah, believing it to be advantageous. 
Her genius for practical management led her to 
hold all such matters in her own hands, and a very 
lively interest in this one detained her until, as she 
was going out of the doorway after her talk in the 
office, she met the gentlemen coming in. 

“ I am disappointed/' she said, pouting. “ I, too, 
love to see the stars, if I cannot burn tobacco in 
their worship.” 

“ Allow me,” responded young Marshall, eagerly. 
“ May I call Mistress MacBain, and will you so far 
honour me as to take a stroll down to the willows ? ” 

The commonplace mention of a chaperone caused 
Diana to bite her lip; yet it was maids who were 
well chaperoned that men ever chose to wed, and 
she agreed sweetly. 

The walk to the willows ended in the three sitting 
down upon the bench where Diana had sat earlier in 
the day, and her relating to Mistress MacBain with 
much, laughter and exaggeration the history of her 
morning’s encounter. 

“ I protest that I have forfeited for ever all good 
opinion of this Virginian gentleman,” she con- 
cluded. “ He will think me nothing but a hoiden 
to the end of the chapter.” 

“ That would be indeed impossible,” Marshall 
replied. “Your new acquaintances are only in 
danger of thinking too much and too well of you 
for your own pleasure, Mistress Chaters.” 

“ A hoiden is not so bad a thing,” Agnes com- 
mented. “ Most of the good-hearted women I have 
known were a bit hoidenish in their youth,” 


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167 

“ Then I am to be known as good-hearted, ami?” 

“ Can any doubt it when they look upon you ? ” 
interposed the lieutenant. And Agnes smiled, a little 
sadly, in the dark. 

Marshall’s good opinion of his hostess waxed and 
grew. Fate seemed in a conspiracy that he should 
see nothing but the best side of this vigorous, 
various, unweeded nature. 

Chunkey, the scullery-maid, was a mestizo, with 
all the faults of both negro father and Indian mother 
— with the virtues of neither race. The small 
sullen creature had the secretiveness and unrespon- 
siveness of the Indian, without the Indian’s dignity, 
resolution, and force; the negro’s inconsequence, 
but none of his light-heartedness. So incorrigible 
a servitor would not have remained in the household, 
except that Diana had come to know and pity the 
absolute forlornness of her position. 

“ She is so grotesquely hideous,” complained Sir 
Paris. “ Why will you retain in your employ a 
creature who mars the decorations of a room by 
entering it ? ” 

“ For that reason,” returned Diana, shortly. “ If 
I let the poor wretch go, who in the world will 
interest themselves to give her food ? — for earn 
it she will not.” 

It seems that Chunkey, seeing the dessert placed 
for a dinner, had stolen a plate of it; and Juno 
on the next morning was come, first to Agnes, and 
then to Diana, demanding that she be whipped for 
the theft. Marshall, in his room overlooking the 
garden, heard and saw the court of inquiry con- 
ducted below. 


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1 68 

“ Chunkey,” said her mistress to the offender, 
“ why did you take the fruit? ” 

“ Fs hongry,” returned the girl, gazing indiffer- 
ently about her. 

“ But you have all the fruit that you care for 
to eat,” Diana went on, patiently ; “ and you broke 
the plate and hid it, so that none should know of 
your fault. Do you not remember that thieves are 
whipped ? ” 

“ Yas, mistis,” developing a vein of philosophy. 
“ I gotty de fruit las’ night, an’ now you whippy 
me dis mo’nin’; dass all right.” 

“ But I do not wish to whip you,” Diana urged. 
“ I want you to be a good servant and not steal 
from me; then you shall never be whipped.” 

“ Dass all right,” reiterated Chunkey. “ I not 
steal yo’ b’longin’s; I des steal hers,” and she 
pointed to Juno. 

“ No, no, that will not answer ! ” Diana cried. “ I 
do not want you to steal anybody’s things. I do 
not want you to be a thief.” 

“ Den you givvy me t’ings,” the handmaiden re- 
turned, hopefully, “ an’ I not wanty steal ’em.” 

“ There, there, Juno,” said Diana, “ the poor 
creature is right. If she had plenty to eat she cer- 
tainly would not steal. You have not been feeding 
her sufficient, I warrant.” And as Juno led her 
charge away, Diana turned to Agnes, who had been 
standing beside her, saying, “ Is it not so, Agnes ? 
None of us would ever be wicked if we were but 
given what we want at once. Ah, poor humanity ! ” 

Diana’s servants, in spite of her high temper, had 
been well treated. Their material wants had been 
looked after, and an occasional kind word or com- 


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169 

mendation from so high and haughty a source 
served to make them wholly devoted to her. Now, 
in these halcyon days, their devotion became demon- 
strative. Agnes had had from her new employer 
little but kindness and consideration. Old Pompey, 
the negro butler, adored even her haughtiness. Sir 
Paris himself was best pleased to leave undisturbed 
a state of affairs which gave him peace. Even 
Chaka, the Indian coachman, felt the sunny effect of 
the atmosphere in the Chaters mansion, so that it 
was not strange Lieutenant Marshall found his 
hostess a marvel of sweetness as well as beauty. 

As for Diana, her further acquaintance with the 
young man revealed to her day by day his unfitness 
for the role she had assigned him. Lad though he 
was, simply as he showed his admiration for her, 
she found it always difficult to brave or constrain 
him. In that laughing boyish fashion of his, he 
was fond of his own way. Hot-tempered, too, she 
guessed, although she saw nothing of it. An only 
child, most tenderly brought up by a doting father, 
even a soldier’s education and a military life had 
brought few reverses to one who had ever found it 
easy to please those about him, and win regard and 
approval by his personal charm. When at times, in 
the lines of his smooth, fresh-coloured young 
features, she read some measure of her own domi- 
nating and imperious will, her heart misgave her; 
yet, true daughter of an adventurous line, the more 
difficult her undertaking, the greater her eagerness 
in its prosecution. 

Life, then, at Chaters House settled down to an 
idyllic calm. All day long, the three guests were 
busily engaged on such preparations for the St. 


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170 

Augustine expedition as General Oglethorpe had 
been able to leave in their hands. Kilsyth was soon 
to go to the front in his capacity of engineer. Lieu- 
tenant Marshall, on account of his familiarity with 
Indian tongues and Indian character, was concerned 
more with the preparations for provisioning the 
trains of Indian allies destined for Fort St. Simons 
and the expedition against Augustine. Captain 
Quillian was expected to see to the packing and 
placing of ammunition and the axes, spades, bills, 
and other implements necessary for pioneer work. 

But in the evenings, when the three were returned 
to this house which had become as a home to them, 
it seemed that all wars and rumours of wars were 
very far indeed from its peaceful parlours. The 
windows would be open, in that pleasant Southern 
land which has no winter, late roses looking in about 
the casement edges; in the splendid old silvern 
sconces, pale green fragrant waxen tapers of the 
candleberry myrtle were set alight, filling the rooms 
with starry radiance. 

Around the table would be, perchance, the three 
older men playing loo, in which they had vainly 
entreated the two younger people to join, claiming 
that less than five made a poor game. But these 
two, who were already engaged in a game much 
more ancient than loo, in which Cupid himself is 
pam, would be drawn apart in the embrasure of 
a window, deep in low-toned conversation; while 
Agnes of Glasgow, with her pale face and her black 
dress like a widow’s, sat playing propriety, seeing 
that refreshments of posset and negus were offered 
the card-players from time to time; and, when 


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1 7 1 

appealed to by Diana or Robert, mingling in their 
conversation with rare good sense. 

From the card-table came now and then the 
triumphant crow of Captain Quillian, “ The miss 
is mine — the miss is mine! Aha! the jade brings 
me a fortune this time ! ” or Sir Paris’s plaintive, 
“ Pam, be civil,” as he appealed to an unknown 
partner to help him with a hand which should have 
looed the board. 

Sir Paris Chaters was neither fool nor ninny. 
His performance was always vastly better than his 
appearance and manner would have led one to 
expect. The first catastrophe in Diana’s affairs had 
taken him rather unaware. Belittled, kept in an 
inferior place by the imperious temper of his young 
relative and ward, he had not presumed to offer 
advice till affairs were past advice-giving, and come 
to that point when any mention of them on his part 
became recrimination. 

Now, when matters between Robert Marshall and 
Diana daily assumed a more serious appearance, 
Sir Paris’s behaviour was that of any sensible 
and prudent, if rather timid, guardian. His first 
step was to consult General Oglethorpe, in an appar- 
ently incidental fashion. The general, being much 
pressed with his preparations for embarking to go 
to Darien and St. Simons, had been but once to 
Chaters House since the officers were sent there. 
Sir Paris, however, went to Oglethorpe’s head- 
quarters — he was staying in the house of Mr. 
Habersham — and after some little preamble 
brought the conversation to the subject he desired. 

“ We find our guests most pleasing gentlemen,” 
he announced. “ Captain Quillian is acquainted with 


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1 72 

several persons whom I already know ; Kilsyth is a 
very worthy man ; and the young lieutenant appears 
to get on with my niece famously. He is, by the 
way, the first American-born man whom I have 
known intimately. Is the family an English one? 
Marshall? Marshall? I do not appear to recollect 
it.” 

“ The family is descended,” Oglethorpe assured 
him, “ from a Sir Percy Marshall, who lost his 
title and estates by siding with the wrong party, 
and came out to Virginia some hundred years ago to 
better his fortunes. He bettered them with a 
vengeance, for he prospered, created a noble 
estate, and founded a family; and the Marshalls 
of Virginia have something the standing which 
we accord to our fine county families at home. As 
for the young man, he is a worthy shoot upon the 
ancestral stock. I am as fond of him as of a son, 
and have never seen aught but good in him. Other- 
wise I had hesitated to send so young a man as 
guest in your house, Sir Paris. I trust you find 
him, also, an agreeable inmate.” 

“ O, as to that,” Sir Paris said, “ when Mistress 
Diana is pleased to be pleased we must all smile, 
at Chaters House.” 

“ The young lady’s judgment is good,” returned 
Oglethorpe, “ good in this instance at least, and 
you may be willing to be pleased when she is 
suited.” 

“ And the estates, you say? ” inquired Sir Paris, 
once more. It was the day when finance cut more 
figure in the matrimonial bargain than in our own, 
although some lovers of the good old times would 
have us believe to the contrary. 


“The young man has means,” General Ogle- 
thorpe returned. “ He is an orphan, like your niece, 
he must be two and twenty, now, and his estate in 
his own hands; a very pretty fortune, too, it should 
be.” 

Sir Paris’s next movement was to make timid 
overtures to Robert himself. Widely read, a lover 
of the best in art and literature, his frivolous manner 
overlaid much which might have pleased the young 
man had he been less preoccupied with Diana. And 
yet Robert Marshall, for all that youthful ebullition 
of high spirits which gave him his laughing, boyish 
manner, was of so sound a heart and so thoroughly 
a gentleman, that his respect for Sir Paris, and his 
attitude of deference toward him, was monstrously 
soothing and pleasing to the gentle old fellow. The 
two, having similar tastes in certain directions, fell 
into the habit of sitting for a moment’s chat together 
whenever some household matter called Diana away. 
At these times Robert was very fain to speak to 
the uncle of his niece’s perfections. 

“ I never met a young lady of her age,” he 
declared, “ with so much majesty, so much capa- 
bility, and yet with such childlike openness of 
nature.” 

The expression with which Sir Paris accepted 
these statements was worth study. “ Why, yes,” 
he agreed, finally, seeing that something was 
expected of him, “ my niece is rather a majestic 
young person. ’Tis a heritage which is said to 
run in the Chaters family, but out of which I have 
somehow missed my legacy,” and he laughed and 
pushed the tobacco down into his pipe — the two 
were smoking together. 


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174 

“ I wonder that you never married, Sir Paris,' ” 
began Robert, in one of these desultory conversa- 
tions ; “ a man with the domestic virtues in perfec- 
tion, as you possess them, should, it seems to me, 
have had his own fireside. And yet,” he caught 
himself back to add, “ with such a charge as your 
niece, with such an one for to make your house- 
hold delightful, I do not wonder that no other 
woman attracted your eye.” 

“ Hm — ah — yes,” returned Sir Paris, some- 
what dryly, “ probably, my lad, we old fellows have 
had our romances, when we have not had our wives. 
I suppose Jamie Oglethorpe, if he ever talks to 
you of it, will tell you how the two of us, my 
brother Ulysses and myself, courted our cousin 
Hastie Wynnewoode some twenty years ago. And 
now Ulysses is gone, and still I am no nearer pleas- 
ing Hastie than I was.” 

Robert had met the Silent Lady, and a little 
wonder moved him at the thought of coupling this 
bold, strong, salient personality with such soft 
thoughts as those of love and courtship. 

“ I have written,” continued Sir Paris, gently, 
“ some hundred and ten sonnets to the lady. Per- 
haps,” he added, smiling whimsically, “ ’twas thus 
I lost her. But I had a very pretty taste for poesy 
in my youth, and used the sonnet form to beat Will 
Shakespeare; for I used the Italianate, while he, 
who was all for making things easy for himself, 
must needs invent one which is no sonnet at all, 
but a trio of quatrains tied with a couplet. If — 
if you should ever be in love, and desire a skilled 
accomplice, why come to me, and I will show you 


some of these sonnets. At her age, Hastie was 
very much what Diana is.” 

This latter assertion Robert most earnestly dis- 
believed. Yet it was only the next morning that, 
flushing a little and laughing a bit shamefacedly, 
he said to the old gentleman, “ I cannot claim to 
be in love, Sir Paris, and yet if you would let 
me see the — you know — the sonnets of which 
you spoke — I am trying to make a posy to put 
in a small Christmas gift for a lady, and I thought 
it might help me to some rhymes.” 

Sir Paris sighed as he gave the thin parchment- 
leaved, leather-bound little volume into the young 
lieutenant’s hands. “ I very much fear,” he said, 
“ that I do ill to set you on in this matter. I 
myself have gotten nothing out of it but a very sore 
heart.” 

Young Marshall flashed a quick glance of aston- 
ishment at him. That any one should suppose for 
an instant a sore heart could be gotten by loving 
Diana Chaters! It was too monstrous. And the 
person who suggested such a thing was her own 
uncle, who must certainly know the manifold per- 
fections of this paragon. 

“ May I take it to my chamber with me ? ” he 
asked, diffidently. “ ’Tis monstrous hard for me to 
turn a rhyme at all, and I would fain go there and 
tear my hair over it.” 

“ After all,” mused Sir Paris, as he heard the 
young man’s light foot mounting the stairway 
two steps at a time, “ after all, the wisdom of the 
old is a sort of mental indigestion. We know what 
dishes have disagreed with us ; and we are ever fain 
to keep the young from eating their fill of them. 


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1 76 

We forget — we forget,” shaking his head, “ that 
a youth more robust than our own may digest these 
things and thrive by them. But the poor boy; he 
hath many a lesson to learn beside the simple one 
of making ‘ love ’ and ‘ dove ’ and 4 bliss ’ and ‘ kiss ’ 
to pair off together in a posy. Methinks he is 
in a fair way now to come through ‘ brief ’ and 
‘grief,’ ‘vain’ and ‘pain,’ ‘loss’ and ‘cross,’ through 
‘ years ’ and ‘ tears ’ — aye, and ‘ fears ’ as well — 
and so on down to ‘ age ’ and ‘ sage.’ ” 

He dreaded long and flinched from the duty which 
he conceived was laid upon him of approaching 
Diana; and when at last the time came that he 
should speak, matters had gone so far that it was 
well-nigh superfluous. They were coming home 
from a dining. Captain Quillian and Marshall had 
been bidden to it, but military duty kept both away. 

“We miss our guests,” Sir Paris advanced cau- 
tiously, as the coach drew quite near home. 

“ Yes,” agreed Diana, “ I miss them so much 
that I was half-minded to stay at home and so be 
ready if Lieut — if either of them got back in time 
for supper. I do not like to have them find the 
house empty.” 

“ Why, ’tis scarcely empty,” her uncle parleyed, 
“ with Mistress MacBain there to make every effort 
for their comfort.” 

“ When I choose to show hospitality,” Diana pro- 
claimed, “ I choose to put into it myself, and not 
my paid dependents.” 

“ Captain Quillian tells me,” Sir Paris deployed, 
“ that he wrote home to his wife how delightfully 
he was situated here, and that he gave you a very 


return 


1 77 

proper character for a most notable housewife, as 
well as an exceedingly charming young creature.” 

Diana would fain have asked if Robert were by 
when this was said, but held her peace. 

“ I was speaking with General Oglethorpe the 
other day,” Sir Paris now lined up, “ of Lieutenant 
Marshall. I desired to know his exact standing, 
seeing that he is unmarried and thrown much in 
your company.” 

He paused timidly, but no angry reply coming, 
and Diana’s expectant face revealing anything but 
displeasure at his speech, he plucked up spirit to 
continue. “ The report was most favourable. 
Though American for several generations, the Mar- 
shall family was founded by a man of title. The 
young man is of good blood and good means ; and 
I think that you and I could both attest, my dear, 
of good disposition and character, as well.” 

“ As to means,” quoth Mistress Diana, with a 
toss of her proud young head, “ that is a matter 
of which I think nothing in the choice of my — 
of — ” 

“ But of which older people will still be thinking, 
my love,” urged Sir Paris, emboldened by her com- 
plaisance. 

Agnes, also, took the privilege of a humble friend, 
and filed her protest against a course which she 
sought to believe the result of girlish pique and 
thoughtlessness. 

“ Mistress Diana,” she began, hesitatingly, in the 
midst of a conversation upon other and more practi- 
cal matters, “ I am not sufficiently older than your- 
self to take upon me to advise you in your affairs ; 
but being so young as you are, and very beautiful 


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178 

— O, very beautiful and winning, too, I think — 
you must have been sought often in marriage. You 
ought, meseems, to remember that many gentlemen 
who come into your presence will be thinking of such 
things. I — O, I beg your indulgence, but — ” 

“ Well, what means all this portentous preamble 

— this thundering in the index ? Has any sighing 
swain made you an emissary to my good graces ? ” 
inquired Diana, laughing, yet with an eager look in 
her eyes which Agnes could but note. 

“ No. ’Tis about the young Lieutenant Marshall 
that I fain would speak to you. His devotion is 
apparent to all. He is but withheld by modesty and 
a sense of your worth and charms from declaring 
himself at once your suitor. Anybody must see 
that.” 

“ Is it so, my Agnes ? Ah, say it again. I never 
thought to have such words sound sweet to me. 
But you know the need I have in this matter. I 
would fain have a man’s name — and that presently 

— to patch my own, which has been sadly shredded 
by the tongue of gossip. I would have a man’s arm 
to strike for me when need is. I would have some 
one to carry my hatred of Archibald Cameron to 
the tip of a sword! ” 

Agnes had listened with a face which grew paler 
and paler. Now she broke in, hurriedly, “ You can 
build no peace on a foundation of hate, Mistress 
Chaters.” 

“ Ah, that is all there is to my heart now ! ’Tis 
one glowing, white-hot mass of hatred for Archibald 
Cameron.” 

“I think you do yourself wrong,” returned Agnes, 
in the slow, laboured tone of one in actual physical 


RETURN 


179 

distress. “ I cannot think that you would so lead 
this sweet young man on and cozen him, making 
him to believe you his lover, hoping by his means 
to compass the death or serious injury of one who 
may have been in fault — ” 

Diana laughed bitterly. “ Who may have been 
in fault, Mistress MacBain? These are strange 
words — to me. In your efforts to reproach me, 
you would even speak a good word for Sathanas 
himself. The man Cameron was a fiend. I tell 
you he was a devil.” 

Agnes looked at her with a curiously blanched 
face. “ Indeed, you mistake me. I certainly have 
no good word to say for that man — to you. And 
yet, I would fain put out a hand to stay you from 
going into that which should be to a woman life’s 
crown and greatest blessing — love and marriage — 
in so unworthy a spirit.” 

“ Agnes, Agnes, I forgive you,” returned Diana, 
lightly. “ You old maids rate men and marriage 
very high. For my part, I shall marry the man, 
if it suits me; and I shall put him from my doors, 
when once I am Mistress Robert Marshall — if that 
suits me better. I have not yet decided how I shall 
play my part in this matter; but doubt not, Agnes, 
I shall play it worthily and as a lady should.” 

These suggestions that Robert Marshall would 
soon propose for her hand pleased Diana mightily, 
and put her in a good humour, as those who made 
them could not fail to see. What did not suit 
her so well, was the young man’s conservative course. 
In spite of his dimples and his trick of blushing — 
because of them, perhaps — he insisted upon “ play- 
ing the parental,” as she bitterly phrased it, and 


i8o 


RETURN 


construing her advances as addressed, to the entire 
army — or the cause — rather than to himself, per- 
sonally. 

Agnes was gone down to inspect a new-come 
boat-load of provisions from up the river, and was 
storm-stayed. Sir Paris, well knowing along what 
road peace lay, had retired above-stairs to share 
Belinda’s elegant seclusion. Having no authority 
— no influence even — he chose to ignore what he 
could not prevent, nor even modify. 

“ Belinda,” he said later, when, with Junius dress- 
ing his curls, and the morsel of dog lying on his 
knees, he addressed himself to the more favoured 
animal, “ you must confess that she makes love to 
the boy like a goddess. Myself, I could never enjoy 
a hunt — a chase — for spendthrift and woful sym- 
pathy with the quarry. — But she does it well, — 
How else should she do it? A Chaters! Why, 
Hector was better than any lover in a play. And 
myself, Hastie could not say I was lacking in any 
touch of the perfect victim of love.” 

Belinda indulged in a weary yawn, and shrugged 
contemptuously. Above Sir Paris’s mass of silken 
ringlets Junius’s black face bent, mute, sardonic — 
a sneer in ebony. 

The half-plaintive, abstracted voice took up the 
theme again. 

“ She hath set out for to woo him with the fire 
and dash of a bold young blade such as her father 
was. Yet she goes to it in such a pretty, maidenly 
fashion that we cannot but see that ’tis Providence 
which hath made women generally shy and inapt for 
such campaigns. Otherwise would all men be 
wedded, or mad for love.” 


RETURN 


1 8 1 


Below stairs, in the big drawing-room, the two 
young people had sat unchaperoned all the dark, 
stormy forenoon. 

Now, Diana rose and stood at the window, chafing 
silently at the young lieutenant’s backwardness. 
The rain fell in long slant lines athwart the mag- 
nolias and limes of her tropical garden. A sea wind 
came in fierce gusty puffs and twisted the dripping 
pomegranates, or, sinking to a relative calm, combed 
the long fringes of the mimosa with unquiet fingers. 

“ A miserable day,” she fretted ; “ come and look 
out upon it.” 

“ A most kind day,” corrected Robert, at her 
shoulder, “ which gives me this hour with you. 
Is the sun not shining ? — I can never tell what 
the weather, if you let me bide by you — all days 
are fair when so spent.” 

Diana turned, blushing, abashed by his ardour. 
The fire of those eyes which met hers, still further 
daunted her. She had evoked this spirit, she had 
been at pains to bid it forth; and now that it was 
answering, her courage flagged. She had to remind 
herself that he was but a boy scarce older than 
herself — in spite of his inches and his breadth of 
shoulder. Was she to be put about by a boy? — 
a green provincial lad? Nay, she’d mould him to 
her will, and use him at her pleasure. 

But her eyes were downcast and her cheeks still 
flushed as she said, “ I am most ungrateful. ’Tis 
the rain which keeps you here with me — and I have 
faulted it. Come, sit thee in the window-seat beside 
me and tell me more of the fair Virginian maids.” 

“ Did I say they were fair? ” 

“ So much and so oft that I am quite ashamed of 


I 82 


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my swarthy cheeks — and gray eyes with them ! 
After so much beauty and gentility, you must find 
me a sort of squaw — is’t not so ? Come, tell me. 
Tell me what you think of one Diana Chaters.” 

“ If I dared,” breathed the boy; “oh, if I dared 
tell you all I think of you ! ” 

The girl showed a face which went pale and red 
with startling suddenness. There was a little set 
smile upon her lips — but her eyes had the look 
of a soul in pain. “ Fie ! ” she began, faintly, “ fie, 
sir, a soldier — and afraid! Come, tell me; how- 
ever ill your opinion, ’twill be kindly spoken, and the 
telling will help me to amend those faults which you 
see largest. I — I — I would fain merit your liking 
— I — ” She came to a heartsick stop. 

“You? Faulty?” cried the young fellow, his 
glowing eyes devouring her downcast face. “ No, 
you are the one created being without blemish! 
Shall I dare really to tell you how I always think of 
you? Shall I?” 

Diana, her face averted, put a hand back against 
the cushions of the settle to steady herself, and 
nodded silently. 

Then, if I may, ’tis not your beauty — though 
tis enough to rob a man of sleep — nor even your 
wit and grace and charm I think of first. ’Tis your 
heart of love — ” 

Diana turned upon him a startled gaze. “My 
heart — my heart of love ! ” she echoed. 

Shall I go on? You will not think me pre- 
suming? You will understand? ” And as she bent 
her head once more, he half-whispered, “ You seem 
to me, in spite of your beauty and bearing — which 
might become an empress, a goddess — like a 






































































' • 









I 


* 











\ 








» 






















I 


4 * 






















» 









* 
























RETURN 


i33 

little trusting child. Your tenderness goes out to 
all about you so that even I, who am as a stranger, 
have a generous, an unearned share in it. I feel 
ever in me the longing to protect you from a world 
which might misunderstand this royal generosity. 
I would I were near to you — a kinsman — deserv- 
ing of your sweet faith, that I might warn you how 
a man treated by you as I have been — shown such 
frank favour — if he were not all a man, might 
presume upon it. I would I were — ” 

“ My father, mayhap,” supplied Diana, with bit- 
ing irony. 

Young Marshall regarded her with a grave smile. 
The query seemed to him one of such utter, touching 
innocence, that he was the more enchanted. “ Aye,” 
he answered, steadily, “ your father. You have 
great need of a father’s care. With all your beauty 
and wit and grace and charm, which must transport 
any man upon whom you deign to look kindly, you 
have so tender a heart that those who are thus rav- 
ished of all judgment need a sterner spirit than yours 
confronting them, to bid them keep their place — 
and distance.” 

The poor badgered girl could have wept with 
shame and vexation. That he should thus defend 
her from himself; that he should be tempted, but 
too high-minded to proffer the swift wooing she 
desired! It was humiliating. 

As she sat turned away from him, one slender 
hand shielding her troubled face, seeking for com- 
posure, and struggling with the sense of defeat 
which weighed her down, she felt the other hand, 
which hung nerveless at her side, lifted gently. It 
was held lightly a moment, and she knew that young 


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184 

Marshall was studying its perfections; then a pair 
of tremulous warm lips were pressed upon it, in a 
caress which their owner evidently strove to keep 
within the bounds of customary gallantry. 

“ Fear not,” Marshall’s voice breathed in her ear, 
“ that I shall misunderstand you, or presume. I 
feel too deeply, where you are in question, to do 
so.” 

He straightened himself and stood looking down 
at her bent head. His heart misgave him that he 
had done ill in what he had said ; and yet he knew 
not how to amend it except by observing greater 
coldness and distance in his intercourse with his 
young hostess. 

But you are weary of this topic,” he began, 
with an attempt at unconcern. “ Tis strange that 
however much I resolve, when next I have the privi- 
lege of talking with you, upon sensible matters, our 
conversation seems ever to drift toward this theme 
which must offend you.” 

Diana s face flamed. She fancied a covert irony 
in the speech. And yet when she looked at the boy, 
and his clear, honest eyes met hers with such win- 
ning frankness, she set it down, as the phrase ran in 
her angry mind, to “ mere brute stupidity,” and 
asked, abruptly: 

“ What of the grand funeral which General Ogle- 
thorpe is preparing to give the Mico of the Creeks, 
old Toma-chi-chi ? ” 

The inquiry seemed to bring something to 
Robert’s mind, for, with a word of apology, he 
hastily drew out his watch and looked at it. “ Time 
flies in your enchanted presence,” he said. “ I should 
have been with the general this hour, making 


RETURN 


185 

arrangements for the military honours which are 
to be paid the old chief. Will you be there to 
look upon the cortege, Mistress Diana?” he asked, 
wistfully, “ for I must indeed go now.” 

“ Why, yes,” returned Diana, indifferently, “ I 
think that I shall go, unless it should be raining as 
it is now. The officers from Charles Town have not 
yet arrived, have they?” and she studied his face 
anxiously. 

“ Not yet,” returned young Marshall, “ but they 
are shortly expected. May I promise the general 
that you will go to-morrow to see the old Indian 
buried ? ” 

“ Nay,” returned Diana, sweetly — as sweetly as 
though rage and resentment were not burning in 
her heart — “ you need make no promise to the 
general. I would far liefer make a promise to you, 
since you ask it. I shall certainly be there.” 

When the young man had gone, Diana, alone 
in her room, dropped her weary head upon her arms. 
But instead of the torrent of tears which another 
woman would have shed, she sat dry-eyed and 
bitter-lipped. Few girls of her age would have 
persisted in such a design, in the face of so much 
discouragement and humiliation. It was charac- 
teristic of the force and fibre of the young creature 
that opposition merely tempered her resolution, as 
fire tempers steel. 

“ I will be Mistress Robert Marshall,” she said, 
“ before the young fool leaves for Augustine. And 
for every pang his blundering awkwardness hath 
caused me, he shall pay back tenfold. Diana 
Chaters suing — courting a man’s favour — offering 
herself — making herself cheap ! Oh, ’tis too much ! 


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1 86 

Tis past bearing — almost. And yet I can bear it, 
and I will, rather than surrender my purpose. There 
will come a day of reckoning, my fine young sir ! ” 

She went to the window and watched Marshall, 
booted and cloaked, breasting the tempest in the 
direction of headquarters. Suddenly, while she 
looked, he turned as though she had called his name. 
The sight of her at the window sent the blood to his 
face. He kissed his glove to her lightly, but his 
adoring eyes said more. 

Again, as she retreated from the window and left 
the gallant, manly figure in the rain, she felt his 
lips upon her hand. And this time, when she went 
back to the chair and her bitter brooding, she wept. 

“ To kiss my hand — after all I had said to him ! 
’Twas an affront! Any creature with the spirit of 
a man in him would have been on his knees, beating 
his breast and swearing he ioved me — though 
every word were a lie, ’tis what a man should say — 
oh ! ” she strangled a sob fiercely — “ while this fish 
— this turnip ” — and again the sob. “ But ’twill 
be the greater triumph — and he shall pay for every 
pang I now endure.” 


CHAPTER XI. 


THE GIFT OF A GRAVE 

“And out of this world when we shall wend, 

To heaven’s bliss our soules bringe; 

God grant us grace it may soe bee ! 

Amen ! say all, for charitye.” 

T his town on the Savannah the old Chief 
Toma-chi-chi lay dying. 



-*■ - Ninety-seven years had he seen; and as 

himself said, “All good years, for in all of them 
I learned.” And now, when his aid was most need- 
ful to the infant colony, his days were come to an 
end. 

Of all considerations which may fret a man at 
the laying down of his life, only this one seemed to 
reach the chief — that he could not remain to hold 
his people in amity with the English; that he, who 
had been their Mico and their war-chief, might 
never again lead them to battle against the treacher- 
ous and insolent Spaniard for their new-found 
friends. 

He had trusted himself to the sea, (and what his 
fellow savages considered the yet more dubious and 
untrustworthy kindness of the white men,) and 
visited England with his wife, his heir Toonahowi, 
and ten Indian head-men. He had seen the wonders 


187 


i88 


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of the white men’s state; he had begged of their 
king the word of wisdom for his own poor people, 
that they might grow in knowledge. 

The gentle Moravians joined him in building, at 
Yamacraw Bluff, the log schoolhouse which they 
called Irene, where the Wesleys and Whitefield at 
times taught and preached. And now he was leaving 
the activities and achievements of a long and busy 
life to set forth on his last solitary journey. 

He was a poor man. Banished from his own 
people, the lower Creeks, for political reasons, though 
still in amity with them, he had gathered other ban- 
ished men about him and become their Mico. A 
generous soul, he divided among his people all gifts 
which came to him, and chose a material poverty 
which brought with it spiritual wealth. 

He had advised Oglethorpe’s mission to the 
Indians at Coweta town when that brave man pene- 
trated three hundred miles into the wilderness to 
treat with the assembled Indian chiefs. Now he 
longed to see once more this brother soul, and learn, 
ere he passed, the outcome of that undertaking. 

He had been raised upon a bed in the centre of 
his tent, whose curtains were looped so that the 
glories of a brilliant October day might be visible 
to his dying eyes. Beside him his wife, Scenauky, 
dumb, wistful, plied a great fan of eagle feathers. 
Toonahowi, who was to act as interpreter, conducted 
the general from the landing. 

Outside, in the clear sunshine, the tall, fine- 
looking, soft-spoken head-men sat and smoked. 
Within, the old man, lying stark as one already 
dead, painfully quiescent save for the fluttering of 
the fine, thin nostril at each silent breath, opened 


RETURN 189 

great eyes, made larger by his leanness, and cried 
out : 

“ Now may the Great Spirit be praised, who took 
not away my breath in the night, nor sealed up mine 
eyes at dawn — that I may once more see thy face, 
O my friend, ere I go hence ! ” 

The general came swiftly forward, and clasped 
the frail dark hand. “ I am setting forth upon a 
journey, Toma-chi-chi,” he said. “ I go presently 
to Frederica, and know not when I shall return; I 
could not go without saying farewell to my friend.” 

“ I, too,” murmured the chief. “ I, too, go now 
upon a voyage, — one whose end I know not.” 

“ Will you take counsel for the voyage? Will 
you have help upon that way ? ” hesitated Ogle- 
thorpe. “ Mr. Whitefield is very fain to speak with 
you of these matters, if he may.” 

“ Help on that trail ? ” questioned the old Mico, 
with a faint, sad, little smile. “ Nay, my white 
brother, that is what no man may have. Short, 
short the time we walk in the sun, and then — dark- 
ness. Draw back the curtain when thy friend steps 
through — what seest thou? Naught. Upon that 
black and bitter journey, O white brother who hast 
been as a father to me, the best loved among us must 
go forth unsupported and uncompanioned. The 
mother lets her weanling babe set its tender foot — 
the small, feeble foot that has not yet skill or strength 
to take one step — upon this dusky trail alone, while 
with torn hair and beaten breast she sits sick with 
weeping at the lodge’s door. No, no. None can 
come with us here.” 

“ Yet,” persisted the white man, “ there is a sign 


1 


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190 

that you might carry with you. Mr. Whitefield is 
most anxious that you be baptised.” 

Again that wintry smile played over the stern 
features. 44 He is a white man — and I am an 
Indian/’ the chief began, in a soft monotone; “ and 
the babes of the white men have more knowledge 
than the chiefs of our tribes. But have they more 
wisdom? I doubt it. For see this child. He will 
come to me, who am an old man — and called, so 
that I have no time now for to learn — and he will 
set the water upon my brow for a sign. Then shall 
I go into the presence of the Great Spirit dishon- 
oured. For God will say to me in that day, 4 Toma- 
chi-chi, wherefore is this sign upon thy brow ? ’ 
And I must answer him, 4 Great Spirit, I know 
not. A child set it there, and I suffered it, not 
because I understood these matters, and was pre- 
pared for the step, but/ ” and he turned his eyes 
lovingly upon Oglethorpe, 44 4 but to please my 
friend/ 

44 Nay, my white brother, the God of my fathers 
will know me without that sign — and with it I were 
to him a shamed man, and a liar. But tell me — 
they have said, but I would have it from your own 
lips — how sped the mission at Coweta Town?” 

44 Why, right well,” replied the other. 44 1 went, 
as you advised, alone. We found a portion of the 
way cruel hard travelling. For two hundred miles 
we saw no living man ; but in all the latter part of 
the journey we found by the path-side provisions 
which had been laid there for us. When we 
were come within forty miles of Coweta the chiefs 
came out to meet us; and never have any shown 
to me such joy in my coming, such gratitude and 


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191 

welcome, as those people met me with, O friend. 
There were men from three hundred miles up, Cou- 
sees and Talapousees, who had come to the council, 
with Choctaws and Chickasaws; and they all felt 
a great pride that I trusted to come among so 
many warriors alone and unarmed. They brewed 
us the black drink — the Foskey — and we drank it 
together to cement their promise of warriors and 
aid.” 

The aged chief, during the recital, had raised 
himself and fixed eager eyes upon the narrator. Now 
he sunk back with a sigh. “ You may let this your 
servant go in peace,” he breathed. “ For I see 
plainly that you have no need of him — you can 
deal with my people. They will trust and love you, 
even as I trust and love you.” 

“ Not so,” remonstrated the general; “ it is a sad 
misfortune to us that you go from us at this time.” 

The old man answered with a sweeping, depre- 
catory gesture of his hands. “ An Indian’s wis- 
dom,” he whispered. “ It is true that I have plucked 
from the wild gardens that Nature plants for herself 
in her inmost holds. The fruits I bring are not 
unwholesome, but surely they are of strange, 
perhaps of unwelcome, flavour to the white man’s 
palate.” 

The general shook his head. “ He who has lived 
close to the heart of earth and her creatures,” he said, 
“ has learned wisdom.” 

“ That which I am the world knows ; that which 
I would be my heart feels; but that which I might 
have been, had my friend but come bringing the 
white man’s wisdom when I was a child, the Great 
Spirit alone can say. It is too late for me. Toona- 


RETURN 


192 

howi — the young men — may profit by it. For 
me, my legs are as the legs of a grasshopper, and 
my breath visits my lips unwillingly. I shall soon 
be gone.” 

A dignified little party of the head-men had 
entered at Toonahowi’s back; now the foremost 
of them stood out from among the others, and said, 
gravely, “ The white father speaks truth. The 
hearts of your people are turned to water when they 
think upon your loss. Who now will lead us to 
victory? Who will give us good counsel? ” and he 
covered his face with his blanket. 

“ Nay, my friend,” replied Toma-chi-chi, “ fret 
not at the framing of things. There draws near to 
us on steady foot a day which shall adjust it all; a 
day when thy bound jaws shall make no appeals, 
and the stiffened lips of thy mortal foe speak no 
reply; a day when praise and blame, and wisdom 
and folly, shall pass thine ears like winds blown. 
And there dogs its shadow a time, but little more 
remote, when dust shall lie thick upon the thing 
which you desired as upon the thing which you 
desired not; upon the good and the evil which we 
have wrought; when the blow which we have given 
and the blow which we have taken shall be one.” 

A moment later, looking with sombre eyes at the 
group of chiefs and head-men, he began again in his 
solemn monotone: 

\Vhat is the life of an Indian ? It is as a lodge 
built in the wilderness. In a few days it is builded 
— and in yet a few more it is decayed. But our 
white brethren do not build lodges of skins. These 
whom you have seen make their habitations of 
wood; and overseas they do plant such piles of 


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193 

rock as their children and their children’s children’s 
children shall not see the end of. Yet the white man 
dies as the Indian dies. It is as a people that the 
white men will live — it is as a people that we would 
not die ! ” he cried, with a sudden exceeding bitter- 
ness in his tone. “ And, O, my . poor people who 
build but graves, hearken to the voice of wisdom. 
Let the white father teach ye, that as a people ye 
perish not off the face of the earth.” 

The chiefs answered, in their soft, grave voices, 
with promises of fealty to Oglethorpe’s settlements 
and docility to his teachings ; and drew apart, leav- 
ing the two friends to take farewell. 

The day lengthened, as Oglethorpe sat talking to 
this rare spirit which was even then poising for 
flight. It had been not only bright, but warm, with 
something of the fierce ardour of midsummer. Now, 
its hot insistence cooled, its eager, unshrinking, un- 
pitying gaze softened. It no longer poured forward, 
but looked yearningly back, retrospective, regretful, 
and kind; and the white man rose in its tender, 
benignant twilight, to bid his old Indian friend and 
ally good-bye and Godspeed. 

After the formal farewells had been made, the 
sick man turned restlessly on his couch of skins. 

“ I have said to you,” he repeated, in a faltering 
voice, “ that the Indian builds naught but graves — 
’tis all I have to offer for an endless moniment be- 
twixt me and thee that I did love thee well. Take 
it then. Make my grave among my white brothers, 
in their town, for a sign to them that shall come 
after of Toma-chi-chi’s love and good-will, and the 
love and good-will that he is fain to build between 
his people and the white men.” 


RETURN 


194 

And so it came about that this man lies sleeping 
still in the heart of a busy city. And it was in the 
after-time even as he had meant that it should be — 
that grave, level with the streets, raised a bulwark, 
builded a fortress, such as no earthen walls nor 
buttresses of living rock could have set about the 
town. And in all the years of Indian warfare which 
came in the times when Oglethorpe with his mas- 
terly Indian policy was gone, Savannah was never 
attacked. 

Could a Creek fight above the grave of him whose 
last words had been counsel to love the newcomers ? 
The old Mico kept effective watch and ward. Living 
he aided, and dead he protected. 

In the Gentleman's Magazine of some months 
later, we read this quaint account of the death and 
the succeeding ceremonies : — 

“ Savannah in Georgia, Oct. 10, 1759. 

“ King Tomo-chi-chi died on the 5th, at his own 
town, 4 miles from hence, of lingering Illness, being 
aged 97. He was sensible to the last Minutes, and 
when he was pursuaded his death was near he 
showed the greatest Magnanimity and Sedateness, 
and exhorted his People never to forget the favours 
he had received from the King when in England, 
but to persevere in their Friendship with the English. 
He expressed the greatest tenderness for Gen. Ogle- 
thorpe, and seemed to have no concern at dying 
but its being a time when his life might be useful 
against the Spaniards. He desired his Body might 
be buried among the English in the Town of 
Savannah, since it was he that had prevailed with 
the Creek Indians to give the Land, and had assisted 


RETURN 


J 95 

in the founding of the Town. The Corpse was 
brought down by Water. The General, attended 
by the Magistrates and People of the Town, met it 
upon the Water’s Edge. The Corpse was carried 
into Percival Square. The pall was supported by 
the General, Col n Stephens, Col n Carteret, M r 
Lemon, and M r Maxwell. It was followed by the 
Indians and Magistrates and People of the Town. 
There was the Respect paid of firing Minute Guns 
from the Battery all the time during the Burial, 
and funeral — firing with small Arms by the Militia, 
who were under arms. The General has ordered a 
Pyramid of Stone, which is dug in this Neighbour- 
hood, to be erected over the Grave, which being in 
the Centre of the Town, will be a great Ornament 
to it, as well as testimony of Gratitude. 

“ Tomo-chi-chi was a Creek Indian, and in his 
youth a great Warriour. He had an excellent 
Judgement and a very ready Wit, which showed 
itself in his Answers on all Occasions. He was 
very generous, giving away all the rich presents he 
received, remaining himself in a wilful Poverty, 
being more pleased in giving to others, than in 
possessing himself ; and he was very mild and good- 
natured.” 

To Diana, in the house on St. Julian Street, came 
Lit, to tell her of the funeral arrangements. There 
was scarce a hint of Indian in all the girl’s dress, 
adornment, or belongings. Instead, the influence 
of Diana Chaters was observable in costume and 
carriage. 

When Diana had said that she would go — in her 
coach, which Lit exclaimed would please the general 


RETURN 


196 

— and taking Sir Paris (and Mistress MacBain if 
she wished to come) Lit asked, a little timidly for 
her : 

“You thought my gown and hood and all very 
fine and genteel, Mistress. Would you — might I 
come with you — ” 

“ Indeed and truly, may you, you very handsome 
and genteel young lady,” interrupted Diana, quickly. 
“ I should have asked you to do so, but I supposed 
your father would — your being ” — and she broke 
off in some confusion. 

The burning red flamed up over Lit’s dark face. 
“ Being a Creek, that my father would want me 
along with them,” she finished for Diana. “ But, 
Mistress, when I told him I would not do it; that, 
if I came at all to the old Mico’s funeral, ’twould be 
along o’ white people, — ‘ my own people,’ I said, — 
he. said nothing. He but laughed a bit, and let me 
go so carelessly that — that I — ” 

“ Yes ? ” prompted Diana, kindly. 

“ Well, I thought — I’ve often thought — I said 
to him, 4 I’m no more a Creek than you are — nor 
nigh so much. ’Tis only one of your lies you have 
to plague me with.’ ” 

“ What did he answer? ” 

“ Naught. But laughed again, and looked slyly 
at me.” 

Diana had had her coach brought round, and Sir 
Paris, Mistress MacBain, Lit, and herself, at Rob- 
ert’s suggestion, drove at an early hour to the landing 
that they might see the funeral cortege come down 
the river. Toma-chi-chi’s town was four miles 
from Savannah by land, and six miles as the stream 
wound. 


RETURN 


197 

The Savannah lay between its banks, broad, 
placid, beautiful. Down its slow current about ten 
o’clock the canoes began coming. The braves were 
painted for the funeral, although the ceremonial was 
to be in the English fashion. The great bands of 
black across the forehead and upon the cheeks of 
those stern faces, gave an indescribable air of 
solemnity. 

Finally came the great periagua in which the old 
Mico himself was laid. General Oglethorpe had sent 
up a coffin, and this having been placed upon the 
bier in the centre of the boat, contained the old man’s 
form. He lay open to the heavens, his thin brown 
hands crossed in Christian fashion upon his breast. 
The general had asked that certain of their Indian 
customs be not omitted, so that his bows and arrows, 
the most beloved of his weapons, lay at his feet. 
Beside him, with the blankets thrown over their 
heads for mourning, were ten braves. These motion- 
less figures in their enshrouding wrappings, you 
would have said, must lose all human expression ; 
but it was not so. The grief expressed by the 
simple lines of each bowed and immovable form 
was beyond belief. 

“ They look sadder,” Diana said, “ than people 
you can see weeping, whose tears you may behold.” 

Arrived at the landing, these braves raised the 
coffin, bore it to land, and placed it upon the sup- 
port which was in readiness to receive it, and with 
grave and sweeping obeisance. Toonahowi, nephew 
of the dead chief, and now head-man and Mico of 
the tribe, surrendered the body to the English 
friends who were to do it honour. The coffined 
form was lifted by General Oglethorpe and his 


RETURN 


198 

fellow pall-bearers, and followed by a long train 
of Indians walking two and two, magistrates, and 
the people of the town. 

A tall, stately figure, with bearded face above the 
draping blanket, attracted Diana’s attention as the 
funeral cortege marched solemnly past. She realised 
a moment after that it was Buccleugh. Reverent, 
dignified, and looking strangely more appropriate 
in his half-barbaric guise than in civilised clothing, 
the tall man walked by the bier of him that had 
been grandsire to his son. 

At Percival Square the pall was laid down, and 
the prayers for the dead were read, minute-guns 
from the battery booming out their message of 
respect for this great military ally of the English 
in Georgia. Last of all a company of forty men 
was wheeled into the square, and a volley fired over 
the grave. 

Robert, with Oglethorpe, came to the coach door 
when the funeral was over, and talked a few moments 
to Diana, whom the general smilingly called some- 
times Mr. Quartermaster, and sometimes Mr. Com- 
missary. The old Mico being now gone, he told 
her that Toonahowi would be the Creek war-chief, 
and would soon gather his warriors for departure to 
the front, and that he would advise her as to the 
monies she was to contribute for corn and meat 
for these Indians. Laying a hand on Robert’s 
shoulder, he added : 

“ You have here, Mistress Chaters, the man who 
will both collect these stores and distribute them. ,, 

This all meant that Robert had perhaps but a 
week longer to be an inmate of Chaters House, and 
both young faces looked grave at the thought. He 


RETURN 199 

rode home at the coach wheel, on Diana’s side, bend- 
ing down to talk to her in a lowered tone, presumably 
of forage and supplies, while she raised to his a pale 
face, across which now and again an expression of 
sharp anxiety flitted. 

And Lit, on the front seat, facing them, thought 
them as pretty a pair of young lovers as ever her 
experienced eye had beheld. 


CHAPTER XII. 


PROPHECIES 

“The auld wight’s ee was blear and dim, 

Loud he did rant and rave; 

He waled to some a gudelye weird, 

He gave to some a grave.” 

S O matters went on in the utmost contentment, 
Mistress Diana winning Captain Quillian’s 
heart by tender inquiries about his wife and 
family whom he had left behind him in England, 
stooping even to conciliate the admiration of poor 
Kilsyth, (who did undoubtedly squint,) but most of 
all showing to Robert Marshall a frank tenderness, 
an open liking, which was very unlike the manner en- 
joined upon young ladies of breeding and fashion 
in that day. 

It was the week before Christmas when the boy 
came hurrying into the house, and, failing to find 
Diana below stairs, searched for her in the garden. 
She was not there, but after he had looked about 
in all the arbours, a gay young voice called from 
an upper window : 

“ I wonder what Lieutenant Marshall can be 
searching for ? ” And looking up, he beheld her lean- 
ing on the sill laughing at him. 

“I think you know, Mistress Diana, what I am ever 
200 


RETURN 


201 


searching for/’ he said, taking off his hat and bowing 
to her, “ but in this instance I am in haste. I thought 
it might be that you and Mistress MacBain would 
be amused to go down to the common and see the 
booths. ’Tis almost like a fair, and I have an hour 
or two at my disposal just now, so that I might 
accompany you.” 

“ Indeed we should like nothing better,” answered 
Diana, without hesitation, and the two appeared 
almost immediately, with silken hoods drawn over 
their heads, and the long loose cape of the time 
thrown over their house dresses. 

“ Shall we do thus ? ” inquired Diana. “ Do per- 
sons of quality go? Must we dress ourselves more 
finely ? ” 

“ I wonder what person of quality could fail to 
find you fine enough ? ” returned young Marshall ; 
and together the three set out for the common, which 
did indeed present the appearance of a country fair. 

The few Scotch colonists who had remained be- 
hind when New Inverness was settled, and the many 
others who had chosen Savannah as a stopping-place, 
brought with them the pleasant customs of Hog- 
menay. All day long there had been small boys 
raising the Chaters knocker and demanding Hog- 
menay gifts, which were duly presented to them. 

These were largely lowland Scotch; but as they 
entered the ground between the line of booths, they 
met an old piper, a tall, gaunt Highlandman in 
plaid and bonnet, who spoke no English. Diana 
was in one of her wild humours, and must see every- 
thing, must stop and hearken to the man’s Gaelic 
speech; but homesick Agnes pulled her hood about 
her face, and stood with bent head forbearing to tell 


202 


RETURN 


her mistress that she might easily have acted as 
interpreter. Beyond the line of booths a great tent 
of skins had been put up, and in it Indian women 
were serving native dishes, not only to their own peo- 
ple but to many of the traders and colonists among 
whom these were much liked. Vast bowls of suc- 
cotash; great pones of chestnut-bread, moist and 
sweet, made of the maize meal, with whole boiled 
chestnuts stuck about through it thick as plums in 
a Christmas pudding; tuckahoe, broiled venison, a 
stew of fish, and unlimited pohickory, made the feast 
a thing to be remembered. 

Diana and her party went into this tent, and seat- 
ing herself at the long board on trestles from which 
the viands were served, she professed an intention 
to taste of every dish. 

Behind the board stood an Indian woman, more 
nearly black or brown than copper-coloured. Her 
low-browed countenance was seamed with myriad 
tiny wrinkles, like cracks in iron rather than furrows 
in flesh. 

This strange, dark, unfriendly squaw was Weep- 
ing Moon, daughter of a considerable chief among 
the Creeks, an only and favourite child of her father. 
She was not, in fact, old, but Indian women are 
prone to look like grandams at twenty and hags at 
thirty. 

Buckaloo had felt an actual attachment for one 
Indian woman, the mother of his little son Salequah, 
and granddaughter of Toma-chi-chi, a patient- 
browed, graceful slip of a girl, who adored him, 
and died after one year of marriage, leaving the 
child an infant to his care. Weeping Moon he mar- 
ried shortly thereafter, because she brought him 


RETURN 


203 

a large dowry of horses, cattle, and gear, and by this 
alliance he obtained an enormous cession of Creek 
lands. 

The woman herself was scarce considered in the 
bargain, but she proved a character to reckon with. 
A typical savage, morose, sullen, cruel, and crafty, 
she cared for no soul on earth except her man ; and 
afterward, when she came to bear that bitter stigma 
to the savage woman, barrenness, she set her 
whole soul upon the adoration of her husband’s 
Indian son. If he was not the child of her body, 
he was at least a child of her race, and a link to the 
white man who treated her at first with such con- 
temptuous indifference. 

After some years of her strong, still, passive in- 
fluence, Buckaloo found himself more or less swayed 
by her. And this influence was always to the baser 
side. Lying and greedy, the woman had much force 
of a silent, secret, and evil kind. She had degraded 
Buckaloo, though he would have laughed to scorn 
the idea that she moved him one doit in his interests 
and doings. 

Lit, she hated. The girl’s freedom from Indian 
traits, her influence with her father, the bright com- 
radeship between them, — all these were so many 
deep and personal offences to the squaw; and in 
true Indian fashion she piled a long score against 
the girl, to be paid out when opportunity should 
serve. 

As Diana sat trying to talk to this woman, calling 
often upon Marshall to act as interpreter, since he 
knew many of the Indian tongues as well as his 
own, Agnes drew her attention to an Indian lad 
sitting near the front of the tent, motionless as a 


RETURN 


204 

little bronze statue, beautiful as a youngling god. 
Diana turned to examine the child with interest. 

“ But, what is it about him, Agnes, that is 
familiar ? ” she queried, knitting her brow intently. 
44 Oh, I have it! It is because he looks like Lit.” 

She glanced about her, guessing it possible that 
these were Lit’s people, when on the instant Lit 
herself rose from a bench in the back of the tent, 
and came forward somewhat unwillingly. 

“ Good day to you, Mistress Chaters, and to you, 
sir, and to you,” she said, bowing to Diana’s party. 
4 4 Are you trying to eat the messes that we Indians 
live on? ” 

The 44 we ” came out with bitter emphasis, and 
Diana, who was quick in sympathy where this girl 
was concerned, saw and felt for the spirit which was 
behind it. ^ " 

44 Who is the beautiful little lad over f 
the door, Lit ? ” she asked. 44 He looks too ha* 
for an Indian, only because he looks too har hr 
to be a boy at all, but more like some great . 
statue.” 

44 That is my brother,” turning fond eyes upon the 
child. 44 1 would my father could hear you speak so 
of him, for if he loves nothing else in the world, 
he loves Salequah. Come, Mistress, let us get out 
of this ; there is no interest here,” she said, looking 
again with contemptuous disfavour at the squaws 
and their work. 44 Do you not want your fortune 
told? There is an old man in a tent beyond here 
who tells fortunes grandly.” 

44 What is he? ” asked Marshall. 44 A gipsy? ” 

44 Nay, a Scotchman, — a Highlandman, very old. 
Dad says he was an old man when he was a lad, 


& 


return 


205 

back in Scotland, and gipsying and telling fortunes 
then, though the story went that he had been a priest 
in his youth — and unfrocked for some black doings, 
I’ll be bound. He hath been with the Indians in this 
country, the Five Nations, whom we Creeks call 
the Back Enemy, and sells charms and simples which 
he says he learned from their medicine-men. But 
’tis certain he hath the gift of second sight, can find 
things which are lost, and bring them that are 
separated together. O, he told me a fine fortune. 
I am to wed a preacher, if you like. Nay, I am to 
preach myself, and be a saver of souls ! ” 

The incongruous prophecy excited much amuse- 
ment; and Lit, as the thought occurred to her that 
the fortune-teller would be glad of some information 
concerning his guests, since with it he could dazzle 
f hem the more, said, “ By your leave I will go- 
V ^n him of your coming, and you may pass 
jf a the other side where the French people are 
Bl ;g off their fruits and flowers.” 

, ; eems a strange thing, does it not,” Marshall 
asked, “ to see flowers shown at a Christmas fair- 
ing? ” He was buying a bunch of white Christmas 
roses for the ladies as he spoke, and the plump 
little Frenchwoman behind the counter nodded and 
laughed and showed her teeth, and was mightily 
cheered to be answered in her own language. 

“ These people speak in most barbarous tongues,” 
she cried, waving her hand indiscriminately toward 
the Scotch, Indians, English, and negroes about her ; 
“ and when you have learned one outlandish word 
you find that the next barbarian you meet knows 
nothing about it. They have so many tongues, ’tis 
as though the Tower of Babel had just fallen.” 





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207 

Indians almost naked; small blacks with scarcely 
more clothing; a mercurial, bright-eyed, dark little 
Frenchman or two from Highgate, four or five miles 
south of Savannah ; some fair, stolid Germans from 
Hampstead or up Ebenezer way, and a good sprin- 
kling of English lads, Diana cried, laughing : 

“ Why, ’tis our population in little ; look at it. 
How many nationalities are there, think you — 
besides that of the alligator, who is a native Geor- 
gian ? ” 

The next booth was that of the seer who was to 
reveal the future to them. Lit having gone ahead 
and offered the old man information, had been coldly 
received. “ Why,” she cried, good-naturedly, “ I 
only wanted to tell you their names so that you might 
scare ’em by having ’em down pat; I think ’twould 
be great fun. I have not forgot the fine fortune you 
told me. You gave me a preacher to my husband ! ” 
and she went off into a great fit of laughing. Recov- 
ering, “ Ye e’en said I should preach myself ! ” she 
added, and laughed again. 

The old Scotchman looked at her angrily from 
under his bushy brows. “ And a preacher ye will 
be, ye unco’, skirling, unrespectful young deevil,” 
he announced. 

Just then Lit’s party darkened the augur’s door- 
way, and he glanced up. He had scorned Lit’s 
information, yet now apparently used it. “ Mistress 
Diana Chaters,” he said, looking past or through 
the young lady with a dull, filmy, introverted eye, 
“ I see you have brought your husband wi’ you.” 

Diana went red, and white, and glanced helplessly 
at Lit, whom she suspected of having procured this 






RETURN 


209 

“ Nay, but I see you on foot and a-horseback, and 
in a poor silly boat, on unknown, dubious waters, 
travelling- among a strange and savage people, seek- 
ing — aye, seeking — one whom you shall not find.” 

“ What nonsense ! ” cried Diana. “ Come, Agnes, 
have your fortune told — or will you dare the Fates, 
Lieutenant Marshall ? ” 

Agnes drew back with a shrinking that was partly 
distaste, partly a sort of fright. “ Nay, I have had 
my fortune told by life, many years ago, and there is 
nothing new to tell.” 

“ What ! ” said the wizard, angrily, “ nothing new 
to tell, is there?” He was evidently incensed at 
being cheated out of his fee. “ I might tell you, Mis- 
tress, where your grave would be — if that would 
please you ? ” 

“ ’Tis no matter to me,” returned Agnes, wearily. 
“ ’Twill be out of Scotland, that I know.” 

“ And outside the kirkyard — that I can tell you, 
also.” 

“ Keep a civil tongue, soothsayer,” put in Mar- 
shall, good-naturedly, laying down a double fee. 
“ The lady does not wish her fortune told, so I will 
pay you for not telling it.” 

Something in the young man’s voice and manner 
seemed to please and appeal to the old charlatan. 
With a new and gentler movement, he took up 
Robert’s hand and held it for a moment with a pre- 
tence of studying the lines. 

“ A good hand,” he said ; “ the hand of an honest 
man; a hand to strike for the right. I will say to 
you, young sir, that you shall compass your heart’s 
desire; ’tis what few of us do in this world. But 
I see a great happiness in store for you. Aye, ’tis 




return 


2 I I 


his bow and arrows, and when ill full flight shot 
these at a mark, making, with many turns and 
swoops and curves, a wonderful picture. 

Down at the farther end of the corral stood old 
Dad Buckaloo, beside his big black horse. There 
were quarter races toward, and the black horse had 
been entered with great odds against him (in spite 
of which he had, on an earlier occasion, won every 
race) . The owners of other horses were remonstrat- 
ing. One Scotchman protested, “ We know weel 
enough, Buccleugh, that your horse is the deil, or in 
league wi’ him; and however much start ye gi’e 
the field, he speaks a word in’s old crony’s lug, and 
awa’ — he beats ’em all ! ” 

Buckaloo swaggered and patted his horse’s neck. 
“ He’s no in league wi’ any worse deil than myself,” 
he answered. “ ’Tis the riding does it, man.” 

“ Aye, the riding ! ” retorted the other. “ And 
were ye not in league wi’ the deil, ’tis sure ye could 
not put such a wee bit splinter of a man-child astride 
that great black beastie, and make the horse mind 
the child. Ye speak to him, Buccleugh — I’ve seen 
ye do it.” 

Buckaloo shouted with laughter, and held his 
sides. “Well, see me do it once more, then!” he 
cried, the quarter race being ready for its start. 

The slender, beautiful little half-breed boy, looking 
less than his years, answered to his call of “ Sale- 
quah! ” Buckaloo took the child, — naked except for 
a loin-cloth, and wearing for decoration a single 
long eagle’s feather painted blood red, and stuck 
through the fillet about his heavy black hair, — lifted 
him and tossed him on the tall stallion’s back, where 
he clung like a bird on a swaying bough, caught the 




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213 

His opinion was held by not a few of the keepers 
of booths. 

So often was this complaint repeated before our 
party had reached the horse pen, that Diana’s 
curiosity was aroused. Arriving at the real busi- 
ness end of the fair, where the horses were sold, 
they found the same state of affairs prevailing. 
Stalls were deserted, trades were unmade, and most 
of the horse traders had strolled away to listen to 
the field preacher. 

“ The man must be worth hearing,” Diana said ; 
“ shall we not go and see? ” 

“ With all my heart,” returned Robert, whose hol- 
iday was drawing too swiftly to a close. 

“ But not to jeer at him,” put in Agnes of Glas- 
gow, jealously. “ I think it possible that this may 
be Mr. Whitefield himself. The clergy of your 
church are much incensed against him, because when 
the people have no prayer-books, (and could not 
read them if they had,) he uses extemporaneous 
prayers. But he says he cares not for the scorn of 
his brother clergymen, and would rather have a 
large congregation in the open fields than a small 
one in a church, though it were the king’s own 
chapel.” 

“ Is he really a priest — and preaches in the fields ? 
That, surely, is not seemly,” declared Diana, with 
the sweeping and easy finality of youth. 

“ He is a priest now,” Agnes answered. “ He was 
but in deacon’s orders when he wrought here last 
year. General Oglethorpe thinks well of him, and 
has him to preach in the chapel when Mr. Norris 
is at Frederica. You may sit under his ministra- 
tions within four walls, yet, Mistress Chaters.” 






CHAPTER XIII. 


WHITEFIELD 


“ But Christes love and his apostles twelve 
He taught; but first he followed it himselve.” 

HISTORIAN of the time describes White- 
field as, “ Above medium stature, graceful 



X JL in every movement, of fair complexion and 
regular features, with dark blue eyes, lively and ex- 
pressive, possessing a voice excelling alike in melody 
and compass, — its modulations accompanied by 
gestures, most appropriate and impressive.” 

Arrived in the field where the preaching was 
going on, the young people at first found difficulty 
in seeing the speaker at all. It was indeed this voice 
which instantly arrested attention. Of rare carry- 
ing power and feeling intensity, its very tones and 
cadences — even before the words uttered could be 
clearly distinguished, and while the speaker remained 
unseen — were as a trumpet-call to the heart’s emo- 
tions, the soul’s impulses; and those to whom he 
spoke laughed, wept, groaned, and were convicted of 
sins, which they themselves had scarcely realised the 
presence of till touched by the Ithuriel spear of his 
divine eloquence. 

It was surely this gift of genuine oratory, this 
magnetic quality, which made his lightest exclama- 


215 





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2 1 7 

NOW, is the day of judgment! To-day is the ap- 
pointed time! We stand before the bar, and the 
witnesses — a cloud of witnesses — are ready to 
testify for or against us. This being SO' — the day 
of reckoning being already come — what shall I 
say to those who will still offend ? I cannot tell who to 
compare them to so fitly as those who pick pockets 
in the presence of the judge, or those who cut 
purses under the very gallows.” 

Here Robert, who had finally prevailed upon a 
man with an ox-cart on the outskirts of the gather- 
ing to accept payment for a seat upon it for the 
women-folk in his charge, helped them to their 
places on its high board seat, and from that eleva- 
tion they thereafter saw as well as heard. When 
they had settled themselves, and turned their eyes 
toward the preacher, he was saying : 

“ We speak of the thief on the cross. We pity 
that thief ; we deem him in extremity. But O, my 
brothers and my sisters, we are all thieves — and we 
are all upon the cross. To-day is the cross upon 
which we are crucified for yesterday’s theft. There 
was not greater need that he should repent than that 
we should repent.” 

Suddenly he paused in his discourse, and pointed 
an accusing forefinger which seemed directed at the 
heart of every living creature before him. “Will 
you dare to tell me,” he asked, in that low, thrilling, 
penetrating tone of which he was master, “ will you 
dare to tell me that you are not a thief? Perchance 
you will say that you have stolen no material thing 
from your brother. It may be you have only de- 
frauded him of that which was his birthright. You 
have stolen from him the love which you should 





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219 


Whitefield. “ My customers will never trust me 
again.” 

“ No, my friend,” said the preacher, putting his 
hand down on the shock head; “ whom should they 
trust if not the man with bravery enough to confess 
his fault?” And the poor shallow fellow, his face 
sodden with weeping and grimy from being rubbed 
upon his smock-sleeve, made his way out from the 
crowd with more nearly the bearing of a man than 
he had ever assumed before. 

A dozen penitents were crowded around the 
preacher, one girl confessing vanity, and that she 
had been unkind to her mother who was now dead; 
a young man that he had cheated at the dice ; an inn 
keeper that he had sold unlicensed liquors; and all 
as earnestly detailing their faults as those sick might 
tell their symptoms to a physician. 

A tall, black-bearded, kingly form came striding 
through the crowd from the edge, and Diana noted 
with a little gasp of surprise old Dad Buckaloo 
push in close to the preacher. “ Friends,” he said, 
“ under each man’s hide there dwell several fellows 
— often a motley crew, having widely varying traits 
and dispositions. This man ” (with a wave of the 
hand toward Whitefield) “comes to the door, 
knocks, and calls upon that one he wants. We 
would oftentimes fain deny that we have such an 
one — honest and faithful — within. But ’tis in 
vain. Whitefield knows there is the honest man 
in every heart — God’s witness. And when he 
comes and calls upon him, and bids him ‘ Rise and 
follow me,’ there is no choice — must needs obey.” 

Dad paused and glanced across the press of listen- 
ing people to where Francis Bennerworth stood, his 



22 1 


RETURN 

sion seemed to give her unmixed satisfaction. “ Tis 
true,” she murmured, half to herself and half to 
those about her, “ Dad robbed the poor soul — and 
I stood by consenting. It seems a preacher may be 
a man, after all,” she added ; and then, with a quick 
flash of laughter to offset her serious mood, “ If I 
am to have a preacher like yon, I shall not mind so 
much.” 

The sermon was now done. Robert helped the 
ladies down from their high perch. Lit parted from 
them, and the three from Chaters House set out to 
return thither. The crowd had rapidly dispersed. 
Lit set a hesitating face to the tent of Weeping Moon 
and the squaw’s satellites, her eyes turning ever 
wistfully toward the spot where Whitefield and 
Benner worth alone remained. Her course sheered 
very wide toward the group, as her sidewise gaze 
showed her Bennerworth on his knees, his bright, un- 
covered head bowed, Whitefield standing with face 
raised to heaven, his outstretched hand on the 
pathetic, repentant young head. Her eyes filled with 
tears, and she turned sharply, and moved forward 
more rapidly. 

Bennerworth, white and shaken, had drawn nearer 
to Whitefield as the crowd dispersed. He had waited 
while a dozen or more penitents told the preacher 
their more intimate troubles in lowered tones, and 
received counsel, encouragement or reproof. 

When all were gone and Whitefield turning to go, 
Bennerworth caught his sleeve. “Sir — Master 
Whitefield,” he began eagerly, “ you have carried 
me so far with your talk, and now I want a bit more 
help from you.” Then, in accents of fear and pain, 
he burst out, “ For God’s sake, tell me what I must 



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223 

ness of a hair. Serve God, and He will give you 
strength as it is needed.” 

“ But,” put in the penitent, “ I must be re- 
strained for my own good. If there was a place — a 
retreat. I wish sometimes I had been born in the 
old church, that I might have gone into a monastery, 
and there have found — have found — ” 

“ Ah, would you dodge the devil in such fashion 
as that? Think you it can be done?” queried the 
preacher, half smiling. “ Why, my son, in solitude, 
in silence, in the monastery, in these places to which 
poor cowards flee, there is the very stronghold of 
Satan. Go forth among your fellow men. Build the 
walls of the fortress about you with the truth of 
God. Every man carries his monastery, of this 
sort, within his own pure soul ; and into it no evil 
thing can come. There he may retire.” 

“ Think no more upon this matter of whether you 
shall drink or not drink ; save your fellow creatures ; 
preach the word of salvation to them. Look about 
upon these savages, these red Indians here, to whom 
the Word has never been carried ; go among them as 
a brother; carry the truth of God in your heart; and 
believe me that there, upon that path, Satan cannot 
follow you.” 

“ But the bodily necessity of it,” groaned poor 
Bennerworth. “ I have, in my evil days, forged 
chains of habit which I cannot break.” 

“Truly you speak,” said the preacher. “But 
God can and will break them for you. I believe as 
truly as I believe I stand here, that you are the 
chosen of the Lord to carry his Word to a people 
who have not heard it. And as for this petty fail- 
ing of the flesh, it will drop from you as the cloak 



CHAPTER XIV. 


THE WAGER 

“‘An asking/ said the ladie gay, 

‘ An asking ye’ll grant me : ’ 

Ask on, ask on/ Sir Colvin said, 

‘ What may your asking be ? ’ ” 

I N March General Oglethorpe, who had been for 
some months at Frederica, on St. Simons 
Island, strengthening his defences against the 
Spaniards, came northward to Savannah on his 
way to Charles Town, there to consult with the 
Assembly for a concerted action against the Span- 
iards at St. Augustine. 

War had been declared between the crowns of 
Spain and England, and the molestations and mis- 
chiefs of the Spaniards in Florida, which continued 
secretly during all peace times, had become overt 
and menacing. The general had received a letter 
from the Crown, directing him to proceed to annoy 
the Spaniards actively; and weak as his Georgia 
colonists were, they desired to seek help from their 
wealthier and older neighbour to the north. 

Oglethorpe was much beloved in Savannah. A 
historian of that time describes him as “ in the prime 
of life, very handsome, tall and manly, dignified but 
not austere, . , , possessed of a liberal education, a 
225 



.RETURN 


227 

too gorgeous for the occasion, was a brocade, white, 
with a flowering of yellow roses. 

All three frocks were made with the narrow, 
pointed bodice, huge panniers, elbow sleeves, and 
square neck demanded by the fashion of the day. 
The full skirts were distended by a mighty hoop 
almost like a farthingale. So equal seemed the 
claims of the three upon her good-will, that she 
called in Agnes of Glasgow to help her decide. 

The Scotchwoman looked them over in silence, 
held the bodices against the lithe, pliant, stately 
young form, to decide as to the becomingness of 
shade. “ Why have you chosen green and yellow ? ” 
she asked, finally, with a little mournful half laugh. 

“ Because they both become me vastly,” returned 
Diana. 

“ I like you best in the gown you oft wear about 
the house ; and so I think does Lieutenant Marshall, 
who quoted, if you remember : 

“‘Green’s forsaken, yellow’s forsworn; 

Blue’s the sweetest colour that’s worn,’ — 

when you first appeared in it.” 

“ Thank you,” said Diana, “ you have helped me 
to a decision — forsaken ! ” and she folded the green 
dress with unnecessary vigour. “ I have a white 
frock here somewhere that will probably answer.” 

But when she came down the stair ready to em- 
bark in the canoe, she was dressed in a gown of 
lovely, silvery blue, with ruffles of filmy Venice 
lace at open neck and elbows ; and in her powdered 
hair there was a bunch of the pink roses which grew 
at the doorway of Chaters House. 

“ I am indeed a green hand at this sort of thing,” 



return 


229 

speak to some other newly come guests. The gen- 
eral and Sir Paris followed the young people across 
the lawn. 

“ I enjoy having Quillian in the house,” Sir Paris 
began. “ He brings me news of the court, and of 
matters quite unknown in this barbarous land. He 
tells me, Jamie, of Lord Hervey, whom everybody 
is calling ‘ Lord Fanny ’ now since Alex Pope, the 
spiteful little monkey, hath so lampooned him in 
the ‘ Dunciad.’ 4 Lord Fanny,’ Quillian says, hath 
fifty wigs, and as many boxes to put them in, with 
labels of a varied shade for each, — a clever idea, 
think you not ? ” 

“ In the name of God ! Paris, you are not re- 
gretting the court? You, a man who can stand 
erect here, and, barring reasonable loyalty, call no 
man his master.” 

“ Steeped to the lips in poverty, as I am,” Sir 
Paris allowed, “ the court is truly not for me.” 

“ Poverty ! ” exclaimed Oglethorpe. “ Poverty 
is no sin.” 

“ Nay, poverty is not a sin — but it is twice as 
bad,” observed the other, tranquilly. “ But listen, 
Jamie, about the wigs and boxes, which I do vow 
is a very clever plan. Quillian says, too, that my 
lord uses a different scent for kerchief, underlinen, 
and robe, so that he might know each from each in 
the dark.” 

“I hope to pass my days,” Oglethorpe answered 
him, “ in doing somewhat for humanity, and,” with 
sudden heat, “ my kerchiefs and robes may smell 
as Heaven wills. Even the ancient and fish-like 
odour of clothing worn for weeks on a forced march 







tions of the Spanish which I endeavoured in vain to 
prevent your conveying to him. He is. in short, 
fled to the dons at Augustine, to colonel, I doubt 
not, that regiment of runaway blacks of which you 
so clearly informed him.” 

“ Tis the danger you all live in, Paris. I would 
not have a slave about me — ” 

“ No, nor let your friends have. So I see,” said 
Sir Paris, with a wicked look. “ It begins to appear 
likely that you gave my fleeing servitor (who, by the 
way, took a companion in the person of my niece’s 
scullery maid) more aid and counsel than I would 
at first have suspected. If you are in close com- 
munication with him, and can easily do so, pray 
make him my compliments, and say to him that, for 
the taking away of the miserable Chunkey, I am 
almost minded to forgive him for depriving me of 
my own valued attendant, videlicet , himself.” 

The eighteenth century, the apogee of formalism 
in manners, produced very naturally many eccen- 
trics, since to depart in the least from its painfully 
elaborate code was to range yourself, in the pub- 
lic eye, a rebel. Mistress Hastie Wynnewoode’s 
vow, and similar mutilations of life, were not un- 
common. Her case had many parallels in her own 
century, and several even in the next. The keeping 
of that vow rigidly, as she did, evinced her strength 
of will and character. But aside from it, she was 
very much as any other high-spirited, self-willed 
gentlewoman of her age. 

When bidden to a dining at which General Ogle- 
thorpe was to be a guest, she did not lack for becom- 
ing wear proper to the occasion. She covered her 
short black locks as a man would, and as her mother 



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233 

tain Quillian remarked to General Oglethorpe, who 
was near him at the table. “ I think I should have 
known him ; and yet, was he the man whose son — 
but no, he had no son; there is only the fair mis- 
tress,” and he glanced down the long board to where 
Diana sat supreme in her beauty, making slender, 
pale little Mistress Wanting look like a tiny rush- 
light beside the moon. 

“ Yes, there were sons,” Oglethorpe replied. 
“ You probably never met Sir Hector. He came to 
Charles Town more than five and twenty years ago. 
The eldest children died in infancy, Paris tells me, 
of the complaints incident to a new country. Then 
came the twin boys of whom he was so proud ; and 
after, little Phoebe, whom I well remember when 
they were visiting in England once, and who was a 
most sweet and gentle child, and died at six years 
of age. At the very last, appeared this vigorous 
and beautiful Diana, whom you know; and then 
lovely Polly Chaters died when her girl was yet 
an infant. The bringing up which the child must 
have had, could excuse much in her conduct — 
were there aught to excuse,” he added, hastily. 

“ Why, yes,” agreed Captain Quillian, “ our 
young hostess, while a thought too imperious for 
my notion of what a maid should be, is certainly a 
daughter in whom any man might well feel pride.” 

“ Pride! ” echoed Oglethorpe; “ ’twas scarce the 
word for Hector, with his daughter. He brought 
her home when she was eight or nine — ’twas the 
year before he was lost at sea — and his adoration, 
his worship, promised easily her destruction. He 
told her frequently (and most injudiciously) that 
she was a queen. He gave her dominion over all 




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235 

of her majority (but a few months ago) he turned 
over every penny — very foolishly — to his niece. 
Owing to which method, he came by an empty 
pocket, and his niece has no conception of her obli- 
gation to him, thinking, as children ever do, that 
the goods of this world descend from heaven into 
waiting laps, gifts of the gods. She is generous by 
nature, — she would not be a Chaters otherwise, — 
yet this matter should be put before her. Paris 
owes it to himself to do so, and be no longer a 
pauper, pensioned upon her bounty; it is good for 
neither of them.” 

This conversation had taken place in intervals 
of the dining, and in guarded asides. Now Colonel 
Ashburnham, at the head of the table (the general 
as guest of honour sat upon his right hand) asked: 
“Gentlemen, have you tried my sauce? If not, 
pray do so in connection with the capons; though 
for myself, I consider it a universal sauce, and eat 
it with flesh, fish, and fowl,” and he handed the 
dish to Oglethorpe. 

“ ’Tis most excellent,” said the general ; and Cap- 
tain Quillian, after making test of it, begged to know 
of what it was compounded. 

“ Why, that,” the colonel said, “ is what I wish 
to tell you. ’Tis a sauce famous in our family. 
My father had it from Carter, who, in his turn, got 
it from the Duke of York when he was concerned 
with marine matters, and the duke — I mean his 
most gracious Majesty Charles Second’s brother — 
at the head of them'. ’Tis made of dry toast beat 
in a mortar, together with some parsley, vinegar, 
salt, and a little pepper ; to which my father — and 
I after him — have always added a lump of excel- 



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237 

stricting bodice, impeding hoops and panniers, and 
overelaborate coiffure, was very ill-suited to any 
exercise whatever. But Diana Chaters was one of 
the few women whose pride of bodily perfection 
could rise superior to any dress. Conscious of the 
supreme beauty of her hands and arms, the grace 
of her tall, pliant figure, and that the bowls gave 
ample opportunity for the display of these advan- 
tages, she managed, though Heaven knows how, to 
bowl, and to bowl well, in her formal dinner dress, 

“ If I lose,” said Diana, pausing with bowl in air, 
“ I will make you a pudding with my own hand.” 

“ And if he lose, Mistress Chaters, sure ’tis for- 
feit enough,” cried a laughing voice from the group 
of young people at the seats, “ that he be made to 
eat that pudding — yea, every spoonful ! ” 

“ Nay,” retorted Diana, flinging back the laugh, 
“ there is no man need be made to eat pudding of my 
making for a forfeit.” 

“ I warrant me ’twould be sweet,” cried one of the 
men, “ if you put those finger-tips in it.” 

“ Yes,” added the young hostess, smiling archly, 
“ but she might spoil it with ginger.” 

“ One can put up with a vast deal of ginger, 
for a like quantity of sugar and honey,” said Cap- 
tain Quillian, philosophically ; “ though as far as 
the disposition of my hostess is concerned — I take 
it that is the thing to which you people are alluding 
— ’tis all compounded of the latter ingredients, in my 
belief.” 

“ Well, then,” asked Diana, poising her bowl for 
a cast, “ what do you put up against the pudding 
I shall make for you? I don’t care for the things 
one may get here in Savannah. Wager me some- 



RETURN 239 

“ No,” protested the young* lieutenant, “ ’tis a 
love gift in our family from a man’s first sweetheart, 
his mother. Three generations of us have drunk 
our pap from it, and cut our teeth upon it. You may 
see the marks of them, around the rim, and the 
names upon the sides.” 

Diana became suddenly grave. “ O, since it is 
a piece of family silver, something you hand down 
from father to son, we will say no more about it, 
but I will play you for any forfeit you choose to 
put up.” 

“ The cup or nothing,” Marshall answered ; “ only 
remember, lady, I cannot give it awlay; it comes 
back to my son. You must have his name put upon 
it beneath mine on the shield, and give it him for 
a christening gift. Think you such a privilege worth 
playing for?” 

“ I do,” said Diana; but both young faces were 
a trifle pale as the game began. Diana won, and 
(apparently) without Robert’s intentionally giving 
her the game. 

Other guests began to come in toward evening, 
and after the candles were lit there was a dance. 
Rather to Diana’s surprise, though not at all to 
her dissatisfaction, Robert Marshall cut a most 
brilliant figure in this part of the entertainment. 
It was not alone his fine stature, his beauty and 
charm. These brought him (in a new community, 
too, where ladies were in the minority) his pick of 
the maids. But the open adulation of him by the 
older women, in which the jovial Mistress Bur- 
lingame still led, and the special favour shown him 
by the men — of all ages — gave him a unique 
position akin to bellehood. 



CHAPTER XV. 


THE TENDER MERCIES OF THE WICKED 

“ Marry me yersel’, Jamie, 

Be my gudemon yersel’, laddie ; 

An’ tak’ me tae your ain countrie, 

Wi’ you at hame to dwell, laddie.” 

I T was barely a week after the dinner and dance 
at Ashburnham Manor-House, that Mistress 
Wanting Ashburnham married young Mclvor, 
to whom orders came unexpectedly to join the com- 
pany at Darien. Oglethorpe was gone down with his 
detachment. Henceforth he was to see little of 
Savannah. His place was near the enemy, — his 
home upon the waters and in the forts which guarded 
the southern confines of the province. Robert had 
been upon two recruiting trips westward to the 
Creeks and Uchees, and now looked almost momen- 
tarily for orders to bring his Indians to the front. 

The two young people were discussing the recent 
hasty marriage. “ ’Twas as sad as a funeral,” Mar- 
shall said. He had been groomsman to young 
Mclvor. 

“ There I disagree with you,” Diana replied. 
“ You men who can go to the front and fight, have 
no mercy on us poor women, who must sit at home 
and eat our hearts out. You are not willing that 
241 



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243 

Marshall said, smiling, yet with deep vibration 
in his voice, “ if you will make so rash a bargain for 
the sake of going to the front in war-times, there 
is one nearer who is not wed, and who is — ” 

He broke off, turned and looked at her with a 
gaze so full and ardent that her own eyes fell before 
it. Then, dropping lightly on one knee before her, 
he took the hand that held the bunch of Bonny 
Dame, and went on : 

“ O, Diana, I know I should not say these things 
to you — not now. I had hoped, in a happier time, 
to woo you as you should be wooed. But, dearest 
love, when I think of that which is before me, and 
realise the many chances that all of us have of 
leaving our bones in those wildernesses whither we 
go, I cannot say — I cannot tell you, dear — how 
sweet ’twould be to have you — mine before I go, 
to know there was a wife waiting for me.” 

Diana sat turned almost away from him, shaken 
by an emotion so acute, so painful, that it locked her 
lips. 

“ I am very selfish,” the boy whispered. “ You 
were jesting in what you said before. He who 
leaves a wife behind him when he goes to wars, 
may be leaving a widow as well.” He raised the 
flower-laden hand to his lips, and Diana turned 
swiftly and put the other hand upon his shoulder. 

“ Nay,” she finally articulated, “ you and I are 
of one mind. You are not selfish. I should never 
blame you with it. I — ” 

She rose swiftly, Marshall also. “ Come,” she 
whispered, “ let us tell them.” And before the aston- 
ished lieutenant had quite fathomed her intention, 
they had stepped to the window, and speaking to 



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245 

ideal of what a high-bred young woman’s demeanour 
should be. 

Being promised this charming girl for a wife, 
his natural ardour led him to urge that if the mar- 
riage were to be before his departure for the front 
at all, it should be at once. He was infinitely 
charmed with the sweet and maidenly way in which 
his betrothed put aside these overtures. She dis- 
played no less affection for him, she promised most 
seriously and sweetly that she would marry him 
before his departure. She even set Agnes to work 
upon some pieces of wonderful white India muslins 
which might be made to serve for a wedding-gown ; 
yet an approach to more exact naming of the day 
brought blushes and tremulous, frightened denials. 

The young man’s judgment was, in point of 
fact, arrayed against this sudden marriage; but this 
bearing of Diana’s proved very fascinating to him, 
and put him more strongly in the attitude of suitor. 
He did not importune her; he did not ordinarily 
urge a speedy marriage upon her; yet the under- 
standing between them now was that he desired 
it above all things, and that she was hesitating, pre- 
sumably through maiden shyness. 

The crux of the matter had in truth been reached : 
A name, a sword to strike for her, she conceived 
that she desired; a husband in fact and a young 
self-willed, dominating one, with a very pretty idea 
of his own rights and deserts, she was not willing 
to accept. How to come by one and avoid the other 
was the problem which kept her awake o’ nights 
and painted dusky circles under her gray eyes. 

Mistress Hastie Wynnewoode came to Chaters 
House, at this time, to pay a visit of some days. 




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247 

Diana laughed as she ran up the stairs, stopped 
midway of them, leaned saucily down, and called 
softly over the balustrade : “ The fellow this first 
Diana loved was a sad sleepyhead, and scarce knew 
what he was about, so much did the goddess befool 
him. Have a care for yourself, Lieutenant 
Endymion ! ” 



RETURN 


249 

ert’s face, adoring-, laughing, boyish, swam before 
her. What should she apprehend from a light- 
hearted lad who was utterly her slave ? Why should 
she, where her plans touched him, figure to herself 
confusion? Why was not he the very man to be 
shifted about as a pawn by her superior intellect 
and force? 

She found in her unquiet mind no satisfactory 
answer to these questionings; and that subcon- 
sciousness which had awakened her continued so 
alert that, at the first lisp of a paddle in the creek 
at the lawn’s foot, she sprang to her feet and was 
down at the house door tugging back the heavy 
bolts before she paused to reflect or question. 

A moment she stood, all alone in the dark, silent, 
sleeping house, wondering at herself ; then she 
pushed open the portal and fled with light, silent 
steps down the walk, to meet half-way an Indian 
courier, as noiseless footed, with a packet which he 
said contained a letter for Lieutenant Marshall and 
one for Mistress Diana Chaters — both from Gen- 
eral Oglethorpe. 

“Is it urgent? Shall I wake him?” she whis- 
pered to the messenger, who was none other than 
Umpechee, Oglethorpe’s friend, who with Tooa- 
naghoni, accompanied him to Europe. 

He bowed gravely in answer to Diana’s question, 
and turned away, saying, “ There is great haste, or 
the general had not suffered Umpechee to come. 
Also, I have been delayed. You should waken him 
at once.” 

Back in her own room, Diana lit a candle at care- 
fully uncovered coals upon the broad hearth. Then, 
with fingers that trembled terribly, she opened the 




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251 

Waking all night with anxiety and emotion, she 
slept late in the morning. When she went down, 
breakfast was over and Marshall gone. She 
had no possible reason to send for him except that 
very urgent cause, the letter. And the letter she 
was determined not to give him till it would serve 
her purpose. So she passed a day of torture, till 
evening brought. Marshall, tired and dusty from a 
day’s hard work at the gathering and storing of 
provisions. After dinner, she was impatient of all 
the company, and strangely unlike herself. She 
finally drew Marshall away to sit just outside the 
window, very silent in the expressed expectation 
that they might hear the mocking-bird sing that 
song which is his very own, and which he reserves 
for mellow, moonlight nights. It was too early 
for such a hope, being barely turned into February, 
but the girl claimed to have heard this elfin warbling 
the night before. 

As one by one the good-nights came through the 
window to the young people and were replied to, 
Diana began to talk to her lover. Finally, Agnes 
MacBain moving impatiently about in the room 
within, Diana leaned through the casement and said, 
sweetly : “ Agnes, we have somewhat of importance 
to discuss, Lieutenant Marshall and I. Go then; do 
not wait for me; I shall be up directly.” And so 
they were alone together. 

“ What is it, dearest ? ” inquired the young lieu- 
tenant, fondly, “ the choosing of a new frock — or 
the livery of a new servant ? ” 

Diana resented the light tone. She had hoped 
he would ask if it was their marriage which was 



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253 

and the combination left her bloated with insults, 
and greedy of an auditor for them — or so she 
thought. 

Her courtship, brief as it was, had seen whole 
hecatombs piled secretly before that overblown pride 
and insolence of hers, raging at the checks she must 
needs put upon it. And now his words were as 
the kindling spark. She looked at him. The 
haughty mouth was set so that no dimples indented 
the cheek. His face was flushed like an angry 
child’s, his eyes flaming with a rage to match her 
own, ill held in leash by the memory that he was a 
gentleman, and addressing a lady. That hot temper 
of his, which was not easily stirred, and most easily 
pacified by any candour of an opponent, bid fair to 
part them. 

As she gazed, a chilling fear fell upon Diana’s 
boiling mood. What was this thing which she was 
doing? Throwing away her hard-fought-for 
chance of a man’s name to wear, and an arm to 
strike for her. What was it she was risking? A 
second jilting! 

At the realisation — as the conviction came home 
to her that this young man with the pink face and 
the blazing eyes was capable of jilting her, Diana 
Chaters, if she drove him too far — a great shud- 
dering took her. 

Once more she stood in spirit, naked to the gaze 
of her enemies, and bore on her unveiled face the 
jeering scorn of hundreds. Not that! Never that! 
She would abase herself; she would crawl, if need 
were, to placate him. 

Before she had quite decided what form her abase- 
ment should take, she had whirled about, run to 



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255 

ruffles of his tie, with wild kisses, whispering, “ You 
will forgive me — you do love me? O Robert — 
my darling! ” 

The unexpected caress, and the still more un- 
expected words, left Marshall utterly happy and 
completely abashed. Half-lifting, half-leading the 
hysterical young creature, he drew her into the 
room, and would have placed her upon the settle 
by the fire and seated himself beside her. But she 
slipped from his arms to the floor, crouching, clasp- 
ing his knees, crying out, “ Do not leave me! Oh, 
do not leave me ! Oh, Robert — Robert — Robert 
— do not desert me ! Promise that you will never 
do that!” 

Distressed, horrified, Marshall bent to raise her. 

“ I do, dear heart — whatever the promise be,” 
he deprecated. And then his evil fate counselled 
him to add, “ Even if it be to give thee up — I 
could promise it, to pleasure thee.” 

At the words, she went wildly on, “ No, no! I 
will never rise till you promise me — oh — oh — oh, 
promise, promise ! ” 

Robert made haste to offer all those tender assur- 
ances of unaltered and unalterable devotion which 
he now realised she desired to hear. He quieted 
her with that instinctive skill, that subjective knowl- 
edge which some childless women display in regard 
to babies, and some inexperienced men show con- 
cerning hysterical women. She leaned her head 
against his shoulder, and spoke with closed eyes. 
“ I shall not sleep this night for anxiety lest wisdom 
find you, in the long hours of darkness, and counsel 
you to change your mind and break your promise 
to so hateful, so unwomanly a creature.” 



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257 

great sun rose. Presently Marshall’s big voice 
spoke. “ I bless this day,” he said. “ What was’t 
the old fortune-teller gave me to my lot? That I 
should have my heart’s desire ? ” 

Diana regarded him heavily. “ Poor soul ! ” she 
whispered, almost under her breath; “your heart’s 
desire. Yes, and he promised happiness therewith; 
and ’tis my thought, that if I am that heart’s desire 
no happiness can come with the possession.” 

“ My sweetheart is tired and overwrought. I 
care not for prophecies. I am the happiest man on 
earth. It still seems strange to me that you should 
stoop, like your namesake, to an earthborn lover; 
but you have shown me so nobly and generously the 
treasures of your heart that my incredulous rapture 
is calmed in happy security.” 

“ Security ! With me ! ” echoed Diana. “ Oh, 
’tis too pitiful! Be wise, Robert Marshall; turn 
back from this marriage, while you may. You 
shall do so without blame. I — we will say that 
we have quarrelled, a conclusion readily believed 
by my family, at least.” She finished with a little 
hard laugh. 

Robert dropped her hands and stepped back from 
her. The colour died swiftly out of his flushed 
face, the light from his happy eyes. 

“ Diana,” he uttered, in a sort of heart-broken 
undertone, “do you wish this? Is it that your 
heart is engaged elsewhere? that you do not desire 
the marriage which was to be ? ” 

He made no movement to touch her. He stood 
apart and looked at her sternly. He spoke of the 
marriage not as a certainty, but as debatable. Had 
he been counselled by one who knew all the circum- 



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259 

“ Why, what are you doing here, Agnes ?” in- 
quired Diana, not unkindly. Her own mood made 
her pitiful to the distress she saw in the other’s 
face. 

“Ah, if you but knew what I have suffered!” 
Agnes went on, in a low, choking voice. “ I came 
but to call you. I — Then, when I found your 
bed had not been slept in, I went down to the creek.” 

“ To the creek ! ” cried Diana, pushing her gently 
back and staring in her face. “ Agnes, Agnes, are 
you distraught, frenzied ? ” 

“ I half believe I am,” the woman replied, with 
a pitiful attempt at a smile. “ But, Mistress Diana, 
I looked in the pool under the willows, and when 
there was something white there, my heart stopped 
beating, and I stood trembling and fearing to find 
what it was, until the moon shifting showed that 
’twas but a flan upon the water.” 

“ Did you think I had incontinently drowned 
myself?” in a slightly sarcastic tone. “And why, 
pray, should I do so? I, with my wedding-day — 
nearing.” 

“ Oh, my poor child, my poor child ! ” quavered 
Agnes. “ I know your heart, your poor broken 
heart, cannot be in this marriage.” 

“ Mistress MacBain,” cried Diana, drawing back, 
“ you go too far. Do you hint that I care — that 
I ever cared — for that hound Cameron ? Why, he 
is not fit to burnish Robert Marshall’s sword. Nay, 
he is not fit to clean the mud from Robert Mar- 
shall’s boots.” And as, in her pride, she said this 
thing, Diana, for one fleeting moment, knew, felt, 
that it was true. 

“ Forgive me,” begged Agnes, once more very 



CHAPTER XVII. 


FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE 

“O farewell grief e, and welcome joye, 

(Sing, put by the willow, the garland of willow.) 

For now I have wedded mine own true love, 

(And I’s never more weare willow.)” 

D ESPITE the dew which Juno might have 
carried to her on the napkin, it was a 
ghastly, driven, harried face poor Diana 
bore when she came down-stairs attired for church. 

Marshall’s letter was still in her bosom. She dared 
not lay it down ; she dared not deliver it ; she scarce 
dared think at all of it. It was an example of 
her cruel pride and her fierce courage to hold it 
back for her own plans; for she was deeply con- 
cerned in this war, and aware that the lives of 
hundreds — potentially the lives of the colonies 
themselves — were taken into her impious hands, 
and that this unworthy trifling was imperilling all. 

In the coach, on their way to church, she began 
speaking again of last night’s conversation, whis- 
pering to Robert in swift asides and allusions ; but 
the time was not propitious; there were others by. 

Once at the court-house, which served also as a 
chapel, she went through the service, rising up, 
sitting down, kneeling, rising again, repeating the 
261 



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263 

back to see if Marshall was coming to walk with 
him. As Robert caught the glance, he threw up a 
hand and beckoned the party. Something in the 
imperious motion brought them all quickly. Most 
of the worshippers were gone from the church. 

“ We have decided,” the boy began, hurriedly, 
“ to be married this morning. I beg your pardon, 
sir, I understood that your permission included 
even so hasty a wedding as this,” he added, deprecat- 
ingly, to Sir Paris. “We catch this time, madam,” 
turning to Hastie, “ when you are with us to honour 
the occasion. ’Twas but this instant thought upon, 
or we had told you earlier. I beg you to remain here 
one moment while I go and prepare the minister.” 

Quillian looked after him with a curious, indul- 
gent smile. “ Bless the lad,” he said, “ he should 
have left that for the groomsman to do — I sup- 
pose I am groomsman.” And they all laughed a 
little awkwardly. 

Marshall had hurried down the aisle almost run- 
ning, stopped an acquaintance or two, returned them 
to their pews, and finally found the minister in the 
vestry — improvised from a small jury-room — 
putting off his robes, told him to resume them, and 
had him in readiness by the time he had gotten back 
and notified the party at the door. Then Quillian 
put himself forward as groomsman, Sir Paris 
offered his arm to the bride, Robert conducted 
Hastie, and, Agnes slipping stealthily in the rear 
with wide, horrified eyes, the marriage party went 
again into the church. 

Such a wedding was not so strange in the Georgia 
of those troubled days of wars and alarms as it 
seemed to this poor girl who knew too much of its 






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265 

now irrevocable, the thing accomplished, she realised 
that all her future happiness must depend upon — 
as all her present comfort came from — the man at 
her side, a handsome, inexperienced, open-hearted 
boy. At times, it seemed to her that she would rather 
be free to put her head down on his breast as it had 
lain last night, to sob out her wretched tale and 
have him unravel it somehow for her, than anything 
which earth could offer. She had had some glimpse 
of his strength and manly directness; she could 
fancy how troubles such as hers would evaporate 
in the sun of his frankness; but he, of all people, 
must be kept outside her counsels just now; he, 
more than any other, must be deceived. She had 
admitted to herself that any hope of happiness she 
had must be in him, and yet she stood pledged to 
strike him, and strike at once, and follow a course 
thereafter which must destroy all ground for mutual 
happiness between them. 

Robert was fain to modify his bliss and behave 
seemly; yet the suddenness of the thing had flown 
to his head like wine. He could not refrain from 
trying continually to catch his bride’s eye or to touch 
her hand. Indeed, such small breaches of the rigid 
etiquette of the time seemed very little to the impul- 
sive boy who longed to have his beautiful, imperial, 
distraught darling in his arms, her head on his 
breast, that he might once for all calm her disquiet, 
annihilate all her fears. And these preoccupations 
made his answers seem so random and ill-considered 
as to cause smiles upon the part of the hearers. 

When they arrived at home, Diana, cold and 
trembling, drew the letter from her bosom and held 
it ready in her hand. Hastie and Sir Paris went in 



return 


267 

this? How much ammunition must I have ready? 
How is it that your message was delayed? God’s 
blood, man ! this means much to the colony and to 
the general. We must stir ourselves. Oh, poor 
girl — I had forgot ! ” and he wheeled and glanced 
toward the parlour. 

At his “ Oh, poor girl! ” she turned a white face 
over her shoulder. Catching Robert’s eye as he 
stood in their midst, half doubting that this thing 
which had come upon him was true, she burst into 
sudden hysterical tears; and then could have sunk 
with shame next minute, for the weeping seemed 
such a lie. 

Robert came swiftly in and kissed her hand ; and 
still she sat crouched in her chair, looking some- 
times over her shoulder and sometimes out at the 
street before her, while the wild whirl of preparation 
went swiftly on. Hastie, with a kind of snort — 
a snort is not speech — passed her and went on 
up the stairs. 

It was not above fifteen minutes before Robert 
was ready and came down to her. Her face was so 
white that he was moved to pity. He put aside his 
own pain and grief to comfort hers. He felt such 
confidence in her love for him that he believed the 
parting was harder for her than it was for himself. 
And then, too, his was the man’s part ; he went into 
action, while she must sit at home and eat her 
heart out. 

He took her gently in his arms. After a little 
while he said : “ Good-bye, heart of my heart, my 
wife, my goddess among women. See, love, I 
cannot die now that you love me and are mine; 
I will come back; only a little time, brave heart,” 



RETURN 269 

or that, — a saint, or even, if they cannot come by 
such distinction, a very great sinner. My niece, 
Diana, has ever posed as a very great personage, 
whose doings were most important, wtho was to be 
envied, to be admired, to be feared, but most of 
all to be ever and much thought upon by everybody. 
Twas not how the thing pleased her which engaged 
her attention, but how it would strike the onlooker. 

‘ Is this well done, and as a great lady should ? ’ she 
seemed to inquire of each performance. But now, 
my dear Hastie, now she has come up squarely to a 
reality, a marriage, and her husband gone to the 
wars, a thing in which she can certainly not longer 
play the actress/’ 

Hastie had been writing upon her tablets during 
the latter part of this speech. Now she extended 
toward him some lines, which ran, “ I agree with 
you. Men’s faults are natural, for they go to them 
like beasts. Women’s faults are against nature, and, 
for the matter of that, against themselves. It seems 
to me that if my cousin Diana had thought more 
upon what really pleased herself, and less upon the 
bedazzlement of those about her, she would have 
come to less harm.” 

“Beasts?” commented Sir Paris gently. “ ’Tis 
so you miscall men, my Hastie. Well, a beast may 
be a gentle, amiable, wholesome creature. Per- 
chance if some of these high, goddess-like females 
had more of the simple beast in them they might 
be more suitable companions for the men of whom 
you so slightingly speak.” 

Again the little tablet lay in his hand with, “ Nay, 

I do not miscall men. For my part I am fond of 
them, as you know. Where I would take issue 



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271 

house was gone and might never return — gone 
perhaps to his death? 

She was starting toward the door, her face cov- 
ered with tears, when there came a quick, bounding 
step on the stair which brought the blood to her 
face and her heart into her mouth. 

Up and up that light, vigorous step leaped, till 
it was at her door. Then, with no rap upon the 
panels, with only the glad cry, “Diana! Diana !” 
the door flung open. 

She was caught up in a close embrace, swept off 
her feet, and laid upon Robert’s breast, while in 
the dusk Robert’s lips whispered against her ear, 
“ Oh, love — love — love ! Not yet — not yet ! 
I am come back to you — my faithful heart — my 
mourning dove! The general is here. All plans 
are changed. We do not go to the front for weeks.” 

And her face, her hair, her neck, were covered 
with eager kisses, while Robert’s heart beat fast and 
uneven beneath her cheek. 



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273 

put it, not so nearly worthy of her ; an old man, for 
instance, of weaker will, who would have doted 
upon her and been more easily led. Even a man of 
Captain Quillian’s age might have excused her de- 
mands, on the score of youth; but what could she 
hope from one who was as imperious, as exacting, 
and almost as young as herself? How should she 
ever dare to tell him anything? She recoiled at the 
mere suggestion. 

Her only compensation for all this defeat was in 
mentally flaunting her handsome, young, and charm- 
ing husband in the face of those who had witnessed 
her humiliation at St. Philip’s. She spent much time 
inventing situations at various elegant dinners and 
dances where she would be bidden as Mistress 
Robert Marshall, when this war was well over, and 
where she should scorn and trample upon her recent 
rivals and detractors back in Charles Town. Yes, 
after all, her courage rose to meet the situation. 
This young gentleman, who had shone with such 
unrivalled lustre at the Ashburnham dinner and 
dance — he was the sort of husband whom she 
could make boast of, and she would have been 
foolish to content herself with less. 

That such a man had been somewhat difficult to 
marry all in haste, as she had done, was natural 
enough, she told herself. It had then but added to 
her resolution that it should be so. 

That such a man was not possible to treat as she 
had meant to treat this husband ; that, after all her 
descending to such lying and subterfuge, chance had 
thwarted her and made him her husband indeed, had 
for a time daunted and silenced that worser angel 
of hers. In the face of real wifehood — and wife- 





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275 

anybody thinking for an instant that she was not 
— as she had ever been wont to do — ruling her 
life and having her own way. 

The war news from below became so urgent that 
not much else was discussed in the town. Robert, 
Diana, and Agnes were left almost completely to 
themselves in Chaters House. Social diversion was 
scarcely thought of. General Oglethorpe was still 
at Frederica. One feature of the situation which, 
in a negative way, helped matters, was that Robert 
was desperately overworked, occupied the day long 
with a multitude of petty harassing details of prep- 
aration for the expedition. 

It was not strange that with his youth, his igno- 
rance of women, and his disposition to value him- 
self at least sufficiently, he should have taken at 
their face value Diana’s unusual evidences of love 
for him. It was not strange that it should have 
bred in him an absolute confidence in her adoration 
for him, and induced an attitude toward her which, 
in spite of his great affection for her, was almost 
pity. 

To a woman of Diana’s pride, one who piqued 
herself upon being coldly indifferent to all men and 
their admiration, and whose sole excuse to herself 
for her behaviour toward Robert Marshall was that 
she cared nothing for him — this to her was galling. 
It continually urged her to show him the falsity of 
his beliefs; and yet she was astonished to find her- 
self, after she was once a wedded wife, (and to 
a man of her own spirit and breeding,) strangely 
helpless. Her refuge was a stupid sullenness, which 
she realised could do nothing else but convince him 





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277 

finally some very bitter tears fell upon the hand she 
had folded on the balustrade. 

“ Poor girl,” said Agnes softly, coming up be- 
hind her, “ poor child, I warned you that Archie 
Cameron was none so easy forgotten by one who 
had given him her heart.” 

“ Archie Cameron indeed ! ” flamed Diana. “ Do 
you suppose that I am standing here weeping 
for him? the hound ! Are you aware, Mistress Mac- 
Bain, that you insult both my husband and myself 
with such words as that? Ah, ’tis not well when 
one’s servants know too much of one’s affairs ! ” 

She went into her own room, her head held very 
high, her cheeks scarlet. “ I will show that pitiful 
idiot,” she said to herself, “ whether I care so much 
for Archibald Cameron. I will show her that I 
told her the truth when I said I never cared for him 
one doit.” 

And when poor Robert came home to his noon 
dinner, half dreading the sight of his enigmatical 
bride, he found himself caught inside the hall door, 
(but in very plain view of Agnes MacBain, you 
may be sure,) kissed, and entreated for forgiveness 
by a most charming and penitent Diana, who accused 
herself that she had a wicked, wicked temper, and 
was jealous of the work which took him so much 
from her. 

For nearly a week after this, Diana played her 
part to her own satisfaction, and the confusion of 
Mistress MacBain and any other observers who 
might doubt her devotion to her bridegroom. 

The best of men so treated must become unwar- 
rantably vain. Robert fell into an irritating habit 
of apologising for his ordinary absences from her. 



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279 

actual marriage, indeed, directly after the wedding 
had been decided upon, she received, two weeks 
after that date, a reply in which Miss Lucas, after 
assuring her that the good people of Charles Town, 
all whose opinions were worth having, considered 
her to be hardly used, and were unwilling to give 
any countenance to Cameron, added that the gentle- 
man had never been seen in Charles Town after the 
day upon which he collected his wagers, and that the 
saying went with many that he was ashamed to 
show his face upon the streets, if not afraid to do 
so. “ Pray believe, my dear Mistress Marshall,” the 
epistle ran, “ that you have many good friends and 
well-wishers in this town, who would not suffer any 
slight to be cast upon you with impunity.” 

A certain ghastly blankness settled upon Diana 
at this intelligence. Cameron was gone. He had 
departed into that unknown world from which he 
had emerged for her undoing. He was not there 
in Charles Town to receive intelligence of her mar- 
riage. Even those whom she had thought to con- 
found with this news were preparing to be kind 
to her without it. 

What, after all, had been the actuating motive 
of her marriage? Wounded pride, lacerated vanity, 
and terror of the world’s speech; a desire to place 
herself once more on a pinnacle, to escape from the 
pillory in which her own imagination had placed 
her. And now, after all, it seemed there was no 
pillory; her wounds were quite without a cause ; her 
marriage only another blunder. 

In these days Robert Marshall was sorely puzzled 
and distressed. The colour had died out of his 
young wife’s cheeks, the light from her eyes, and 



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“ So much the more reason,” she flung out, “ that 
I am moped to death with this sort of life. I think 
that, till this war is over, I should be at home.” 

“In Virginia, do you mean?” inquired Robert 
sternly. 

“ No, in England ; I have no home in Virginia,” 
the girl retorted. 

“ Have you a home in England ? ” asked Marshall, 
with rising heat. 

“ I could make one there ; I have kin there. It 
is at least a place fit for a gentlewoman to live in.” 

“And this is not?” he inquired, sarcastically. 
“ You would seem to accuse me of the place, Diana. 
But remember, I did not bring you here — nor 
should ever have done so;^ but ’tis the place where 
I married you. And, madam, I will say to you 
now that the place in which a gentlewoman’s hus- 
band lives is, to my thinking, the most fitting place 
for a gentlewoman to live.” 

Diana rose, and went to a window where she stood 
looking out, brooding upon the tangle which she 
had made of her affairs. This was the man she 
had talked of turning from her doors when it 
pleased her, this person who took such calm 
authority, not only over her actions but over her 
very thoughts! She longed to be round with him, 
to tell him, once for all, the ground upon which he 
stood; yet there was too much to explain. 

Robert’s quick temper was already subsiding. 
He looked at the slender figure by the casement, 
and his heart misgave him that he had been harsh. 
A moment more and he would have had her in his 
arms, his repentant lips upon hers, a tender apology 
murmured between kisses. But just at this point, 



RETURN 283 

if you desire to go, and Robert here thinks he can 
spare you.” 

“ O, as to that,” Diana sneered, “ you can see 
for yourself what he thinks of the matter.” 

“ I am so busy,” Robert repeated apologetically, 
“ I am so worn and wearied with these multitudi- 
nous and harassing details that I have scarce time 
to appreciate Mistress Marshall’s society at its value 
just now.” 

Diana rose, and left the men to their wine. In 
the drawing-room she paced up and down, her hands 
clenched, her cheeks still burning. “ Go, will I ? ” 
she said, to herself. “ Yea, and will not return 
easily. This, after all his protestations of love ! ” 
and she seated herself at her spinet. 

Believing herself a very ill-used wife, and yet 
not choosing that her husband or her uncle should 
find her grieving or unoccupied, she sent for Agnes, 
who had a pleasant contralto voice, singing what 
they called “ counter ” to Diana’s treble, and the 
two were soon making the rooms melodious with 
“ Allan Water,” and “ The Bailiff’s Daughter of 
Islington.” Robert evidently left his wine to join 
them, for the baronet was some time later in reach- 
ing the drawing-room. 

Diana had, in the early days of their courtship, 
praised her lover’s voice immoderately. Indeed, it 
was a voice which she could never hear in singing 
without a certain emotion, and she would have pre- 
ferred, since she desired to be very hard and cold, 
that he did not sing with them, but found no reason 
to decline when he picked out the three-part songs 
and catches, and begged very sweetly that they sing 
them together, for that she would be going away 



RETURN 285 

to a formal kiss, with no explanations asked or 
offered. 

Diana, poor girl, slept neither above nor below 
stairs, for she did not close her eyes till Juno came 
to call her, as she sat ready, her great gray travelling 
cloak and hood thrown over a chair beside her, her 
packets fully prepared, so that there was nothing 
for the negress to do. 



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287 

plans are completed, should negotiations be long 
in making.” 

It would be wrong to say that Oglethorpe was not, 
in a vague way, impressed that his young compan- 
ion’s affairs matrimonial were scarcely progressing 
favourably. Yet, with his head so full of graver 
matter, he reflected less upon this subject than he 
would have done at another time. Diana or Sir 
Paris, or both, he supposed, had given the lad a 
full account of her previous disaster. The marriage 
was, to his thinking, imprudently hurried; and had 
he been in Savannah at the time of its occurrence, 
he would no doubt have remonstrated. But this 
great man was a mender of breaches, a healer of 
hurts, rather than a critic, particularly when the 
event was past; and his solicitude showed itself 
mainly in an added kindliness toward his young 
lieutenant. Indeed, he held with the boy an almost 
fatherly tone, which was warranted by his achieve- 
ments if not by his years. 

It was the second day of their stay in Charles 
Town that young Marshall came to him from a 
supper at the club, which some of the junior officers 
had given in the lieutenant’s honour, and inquired 
with a very white face whether the general had 
known from the first of Diana’s interrupted wedding 
with Archibald Cameron. 

“ Good God ! my poor boy,” cried Oglethorpe, 
springing up and laying a hand upon his shoulder, 
“ is’t possible she did not — ” There he checked 
himself. “ Nay, I can see,” he went on, more 
cautiously ; “ she loved you from the first, and feared 
to lose you by telling of this. Surely, surely, Mar- 
shall, you cannot hold against the poor child a 



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289 

ative for this meeting which he suspected; and 
when Robert joined him next morning at the Assem- 
bly rooms, his right hand bandaged and that arm 
in a sling, the general asked no questions. Nor did 
Robert’s face tell him anything. But it was true 
that the sword which Diana had bought at such cost 
was fleshed in her cause for the first time that 
morning. 

In the nights which followed, the tangle of Robert 
Marshall’s affairs, even more than the pain of his 
slight wound, kept him ill company. At times, the 
whole matter unravelled itself and lay clear to his 
vision. He saw without doubt that he had never 
been loved; that he had been wedded as a bravo is 
hired. He thought upon that evening of his return, 
after the sudden marriage and immediate depar- 
ture, when he had so confidently discounted Diana’s 
even greater love for him and longing for him than 
his for her; and burned with shame to find himself 
so easily deceived. He, so courted, so desired, had 
been made to occupy the loathed position of an 
unwelcome bridegroom, a profferer of undesired 
caresses — oh ! and his pride cried out even more 
than his love. Every boyish, boastful sentence which 
had carried presumption of her love, came back 
to him and stood out before his mind tauntingly; 
and when he remembered that he had called her 
his “ mourning dove,” he grovelled abjectly in 
spirit. For verily a man’s vanity will bleed when 
his heart is still whole; and poor Robert was greatly 
wounded in both. 

During the day, the press of important business 
kept these matters somewhat from his mind. It was 
in the night he suffered and brooded, and finally 



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291 

“ Does your husband accompany you ? ” Hastie 
wrote. 

“ Why, yes, I think I will take him,” Diana 
drawled, coolly. “ I call him a very pretty fellow ; 
and I find him good company, too.” 

“ I should not have guessed it,” Hastie pencilled, 
instantly, and then was half-ruthful, because the 
comment seemed inhospitable. 

In short, Diana Marshall was at her worst during 
these weeks in her cousin’s house, for two weeks 
passed before a packet of belated letters brought out 
from Savannah carried to her the information of 
Robert’s departure for Charles Town, and also 
of his expected return. The days lived under 
Hastie’s grim, silent displeasure had prepared her 
guest for an outburst of some sort. Hastie had con- 
sistently believed the worst of her, and Diana 
scorned to fall short of the expectation. 

Reading these two letters in her chamber, able 
to communicate neither their contents nor the cause 
of offence which they contained, since she dared not 
tell her cousin that she had married Robert without 
fully informing him of her previous experience, she 
fell into what Hastie accepted as a perfectly natural 
manifestation of idiot rage, packed her belongings, 
demanded a horse for the journey, was set across to 
the mainland on the ferry, and, with Bennerworth 
for escort, rode back to Savannah. 

In spite of his good resolutions, Robert was not 
prepared to hold a pacific course toward such a 
termagant as now came home to him. Agnes had 
made him comfortable in his room, where he sat in a 
large chair at a window, his injured hand laid, for 
the greater ease, upon a small stand beside him. The 



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293 

shivering in the blankness of despair, or looked with 
aching eyes about the shattered edifice of his life, 
the ruined fabric of his trust, turning slow and 
shrinking glances from loss to loss, from pain to 
pain, calling whisperingly upon his company and 
household of hopes, interests, resources, for counsel 
or comfort, and hearing, in the empty house of his 
soul, no sound, no answer, but the faint echo of his 
own cry. 

Diana dismounted at the front door, giving the 
rein to Sogo, who had run out to receive it. Benner- 
worth declined to enter, saying he had business in 
the town before he could ride back; so she dis- 
missed him with thanks and most kindly smiles, and 
went in prepared for battle. 

Agnes’s reproachful face met her in the hallway. 
“ Your husband is in his chamber,” she volunteered. 
“ He has a wound which I have been dressing.” 

“ A wound ! ” echoed Diana, with sudden tremor, 
and flew up the stairs. 

“ Where were you hurt ? What is the matter ? ” 
she cried, bursting into the room. Her eyes, dilated, 
fixed themselves upon the bandaged arm. It was 
the sword-arm. She rushed instantly to a conclu- 
sion, and a glance at her young husband’s set, 
inscrutable face, with all the colour and light washed 
out of it, seemed to confirm her anticipations. 

“It is nothing,” Marshall answered briefly; “a 
hurt I got in handling some tools ; ” and here missed 
the one thing which might have ameliorated matters 
between them. 

“ And so, sir,” Diana quavered, standing before 
him tall and pale, “ you choose to go about spying 
and prying upon a wretched woman’s affairs till — ” 



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295 

dupe ! I was ready enough to think myself beloved. 
And yet — for heaven’s sake, Diana ! — less would 
have sufficed. When I think of your protestations, 
of your promises, of the things you said and did — ” 
He turned his face away, for there were tears in his 
eyes which he was unwilling she should see. 

His words brought up before Diana’s mind her 
whole campaign of courtship. The sweet looks, the 
sighs and broken sentences, the tears and passionate 
pleadings and frantic kisses. 

These were the things, to remember whose false- 
ness broke the boyish heart, and ground the boyish 
pride to bloody dust. To remember that they had 
ever been at all, to be bidden remember them by 
him whose doltishness had made them necessary, 
stung and maddened Diana past anything her undis- 
ciplined life had ever known. She laid about her 
for the most cutting, the most withering rejoinder 
she could make. 

“ Why, so far as that is concerned,” she said with 
an assumption of cool, cynical bravado, “ it suited me 
to be no longer a spinster. I did what was necessary, 
sir, to purchase me a sword-arm and a name. If 
you think I paid too dearly for these things which 
I then conceived necessities, why, you think no 
more than I do. One cannot always tell just what 
the cost, when one buys.” 

Now she looked up and caught the glint of Mar- 
shall’s eye. Its deep blue was steely, and that young, 
warm, dimpled face of his was wholly colourless, the 
jaw set till all boyish immaturity seemed erased from 
it for ever. There was nothing left of the lad she had 
cajoled, and thought to bend and mould. 

“ Hold, Diana ; stay your hand ; these words are 






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2 97 

apparent than in the dogged control which this high- 
spirited, volatile nature now held upon its indigna- 
tion. “ I forbear to say to you, Diana,” he answered, 
“ that the house is mine as well as yours. My 
house — my houses — in Virginia, though you told 
me not long ago you had no home there, belong 
certainly to you as well as to myself. We are tied 
together, poor souls, so far as material things may 
hold us.” 

“ But in every thought and feeling,” cried Diana, 
“ we are wide asunder, sir. And if I cannot be free 
before the world, believe me, sir, I am the freer in 
my own mind from any claim of yours.” 

She looked at his cold, suffering young face, so 
shut against her, and her impotent rage lashed and 
tore her. Again she sought for a weapon of insult, 
and burst out, “ Why, I wedded you as I would have 
called a lackey to perform any service for me. I was 
looking about, when chance tossed you here, for such 
a fellow, and I — ” 

“ Shame — shame — oh, shame, Diana! ” Rob- 
ert’s quiet voice checked her with a face of burning 
red, midway the wretched sentence. 

Even at the height of his anger Robert knew she 
belied herself in these speeches. He was humiliated 
to the- soul for her, and sick to be done with them. 
She was silenced. He turned and pulled the bell- 
rope, preparatory to sending for those who should do 
his packing. “ Diana,” he said, as he did so, “ I 
leave one thing here in your hands — leave it of 
necessity, and not because I wish to — the name. 
You are Mistress Marshall, remember that. See that 
you hold this name above reproach. So far as any 
expectation of love or happiness is concerned, we are 



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299 

little gray figure standing in the door, tears upon 
the pale cheeks, a handkerchief waving after him. 

The woman above stairs, already past the crisis of 
her rage, and treading that awful down-slope of 
despair, watched from behind the curtain, with hope- 
less eyes, for his departure. 

But when at length he stepped forth, turning to 
answer Agnes’s final Godspeed, and stealing a last 
uncontrollable glance up at that window, nothing 
at all lived at it. On her face, on the floor beneath 
it, Diana lay fast in a sick swoon. 





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301 

After a while, as her own heart yet sank and sank, 
and her temper lay supine, she felt acutely the 
need of an auditor, some one to whom she might 
justify her course. The remembrance of Agnes’s 
face did not make her a hopeful person to select for 
this purpose. Surely her Cousin Hastie was even 
less so, yet the ties of blood are strong. 

When she finally opened the door and went forth 
into the hall, the sight of a worn-out riding-glove 
of Robert’s, left behind in the packing, and dropped 
upon the very threshold of the room from which he 
had just gone, caused her to start and half cry out, 
thinking to see beyond it his tall form and accusing 
face. 

He was gone — gone perhaps to his death — 
they had parted in anger. But he was to blame — 
to blame — to blame! She told herself that, over 
and over and over. 

Suddenly, as people sometimes do after a bereave- 
ment, she went in haste, and as though she were 
searching, from room to room of the whole house. 
Everywhere was some token of him. On her own 
dressing-table, the little silver cup, full of the pale 
March violets of the South. She could have 
shrieked at sight of it. Weep, she would not; and 
finally she glanced down at her riding-skirt, took out 
her watch, and found that this tragedy of her life 
had occupied just one hour upon the dial, and that 
she might, by starting at once, get back to Wynne- 
woode before night. 

Possibly Bennerworth would be passing — had 
not yet gone. She ran feverishly for Agnes, directed 
that Pompey and Sogo be both sent up-town to seek 



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303 

and she ejaculated Robert's phrase with startling 
bitterness. 

Hastie watched her as she took the crumpet, but- 
tered it, trifled with it, cut it into small pieces, 
essayed it again and again, and finally, confessing 
defeat, laid it aside, all with unsteady fingers. 
“ You seem to be in much distress of mind,” she 
wrote again, “ which I find most natural under the 
circumstances; but I wish you would try to eat 
something. You could but expect that Robert would 
be called away. Soldiers' wives must bear these 
things as best they may.” 

“ Bear it ! ” Diana cried ; and then out came the 
ugly story of their quarrel, told with all Diana’s 
bent for extremes and exaggerative phrasing. 
Hastie listened, pity in her face. 

The two women rose silently when the brief out- 
burst was over, and walked toward the front of the 
house. Before them lay the green lawn, and beyond 
that the paler green of the sea. The salt air stirred 
the white curtains at the windows, flowers were 
beginning to bloom everywhere, in that amiable 
March weather which almost equals a northern 
June. 

Hastie motioned to her young relative to sit down 
upon one of the seats arranged on the porch, herself 
taking another one; she wrote so long upon her 
tablets that Diana rose and began walking restlessly 
up and down. When the little slate was put in 
her hand, it proved to be covered on both sides with 
close, fine writing. And there in terse sentences 
was set down the history of Hastie Wynnewoode’s 
quarrel with her lover. 

“ My pride,” it closed, “ my cruel pride must have 



return 


305 

on Hastie. “ Think you that many maids would 
have done what I did ? ” 

“ Married Robert Marshall ? ” wrote Hastie. 
“ Why, yes, any of them. He was young, well born 
and bred, rich, a beautiful lad; I never saw a more 
lovable — ” 

Diana put out a protesting hand upon the slate. 
“ Ah ! Ah ! But there’s where I showed my mettle. 
Which one of them, having married this paragon 
— as you make him out to be — would have wedded 
him untouched by his perfections? Which one 
would have gone through it all with a heart of ice — 
would have married him to suit her own ends, and 
then been rid of him as I have done? ” 

“ After living with him near a month,” wrote 
Hastie, and regarded her young cousin with a dry 
smile. 

Diana gazed at her with a pitiful assumption of 
bravado. “ I — ” she began, and words failed her. 
She sat and looked on the ground. 

And again Hastie wrote and laid the slate in the 
other’s lap. 

“ You found it not so easy to put down, to turn 
aside, to deny and dismiss a man of young Rob- 
ert’s measure. It took you some weeks to stew that 
fiend’s temper of yours to the point where you could 
wreak on Robert the spite which Archie left bub- 
bling in you. Poor baby — poor Diana — I’m 
sorry for you. You needs must break your toy — 
your beautiful toy — because you were still in a 
sullen rage that another had splashed mud upon 
you.” 

“ No, Hastie — you shall not say such things — I 
will not have it. Your bitter temper I bear with in 



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307 

As Diana made to interrupt vehemently, Hastie 
pencilled again, “Ah! Ah! Go to! Talk no more 
such folly — to me, at least. Why, you could not 
take your eyes off him.” 

“ So I could not! ” cried Diana. “ I never lived 
in such anxiety. I was consumed with fear that 
he be told somewhat; and I continually dreaded he 
would misdoubt such eager and unmaidenlv ad- 
vances — from one so — so greatly his better every 
way. I dared not hold myself, as I really was, 
as I always had been ; but must cheapen my 
favours, that I might be wed before Archie Cameron 
could hear that I was pining because he had jilted 

y> 



THE BOOK OF RETURNING 




CHAPTER I. 


THE END OF THE FURROW. 

“ Oh, oh, if my young babe were bom 
And set upon the nurse’s knee, 

And I mysel’ were dead and gone, 

The green grass growing over me ! ” 

D ESPITE this plain speaking — because of 
it, perhaps — Diana remained two weeks 
at Wynnewoode. 

The women talked often of Robert. Indeed, 
whatever subject was broached between them, it 
appeared to lead inevitably to some consideration 
of Diana’s errant husband. And Diana’s note sank 
and sank through the octave of passion, from that 
yell of rage and self- justification with which it had 
opened, down — down — down, to something very 
like the whisper of despair. 

Hastie, who laboured under the several disabili- 
ties of being also a woman and a Chaters, of pos- 
sessing a somewhat similar temper, and having done 
a somewhat similar deed, yet found it in her heart 
to pity the desolate young creature, when she finally 
came to make her adieus, faltering that she believed 
she would go back to Chaters House and interest 
herself in affairs there — indeed many matters, 
which had been somewhat neglected of late, called 
for her attention. 

3 11 





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313 

feet seemed almost too bleak and terrible for her 
to tread. 

One evening, after their simple early supper, she 
tossed on a hooded cape, and with the usual formula 
to her uncle, “ I will walk upon the beach for a little, 
before bedtime,” hastened down to the shore. (She 
never moved slowly nowadays; life clung to her, 
a low fever whose morbid stimulus kept her heart 
beating unsteadily and fast, and timed her aimless 
movements to its quick pulsations.) 

She fluttered up and down the level beach, 
wrapped in her dark cloak, a flittering shape against 
the sand’s gray white. Suddenly she threw off the 
cloak, because it smothered her, walked half-way 
along her former course without it, turned and 
hurried back to it, a-cold. Thereafter she wore it, 
hugged about her; anon, with fronts thrown open; 
then carried upon her arm; then cast it by again 
altogether. 

Near at hand, the reedy shores of small islands 
closed in to give seclusion to this bit of beach; but 
between them, to eastward, a way led out into the 
nebulous obscurity of the waste Atlantic itself. 
This beckoned Diana’s sick fancy, as though it led 
indeed out of the bitter coil in which she had 
involved her life, — into solution, if it were no more 
than surcease, oblivion. 

The sea lay out there. Vague, mysterious, com- 
pelling, it called to her. Somewhere in its great 
reaches her father and her brothers slept — with 
many others of their breed. Why should she not 
go to them now, and have an end ? She sat down on 
the sand and drew her knees up, clasping them, and 
staring into the gray dimness. Her desolate gaze 



return 


315 

leaves, punctuated by the little lisping chirp of 
nestling birds. 

Diana had written two weeks ago to General 
Oglethorpe. Unwilling to address her husband, 
yet desperately anxious that he should receive a 
communication which she now had to make to him, 
she had sounded the possibilities of the case by 
sending him a message through the general. But 
when Oglethorpe would have delivered this mes- 
sage, saying, carelessly, “ Lieutenant Marshall, I 
have received a letter from your wife,” the young 
man turned upon him and answered, slowly, “ Sir, 
I have no wife.” 

Oglethorpe, remembering the affair in Charles 
Town, and reading finality in the squaring of that 
jaw, forbore to urge the communication upon the 
lad ; and wrote in his letter to Diana of his inability 
to deliver it, though softening somewhat the manner 
of its rejection. In the course of his letter to her 
he said : 

“ Dear Mistress, I pray you examine truley your 
own conduct. This Brave Soldier of mine, and 
Honourable Gentleman, I have always known. ’Twas 
a most sweet and gentle lad, and even if overwrought 
to anger, yet still the first to be Reconciled ; for he is 
as the brave ever are, truly Magnanimous, and 
incapable of any vindictive or revengeful spirit. Let 
my love for him, and indeed for you both, be my 
excuse if I venture to ask you to scan your Conduct 
to him. Have you borne yourself toward him as a 
Loving Spouse? Methinks if that you had, he 
would not so have spoken.” 

This letter it was — and the light which it threw 
upon the present state of her affair — that had 



return 3 i 7 

of Sir Paris’s compliance with her request was 
almost comical. A few days later saw them installed 
at Chaters House. 

Here, matters were somewhat better for Diana 

because they could not well be worse. She had 
reached an apathy of misery. She had accepted 
her life as it was, but she lived it passively, without 
effort.. She who had battled all her days, straining 
for this point or that, now drifted with the current 
— wayward, adverse — and let it take her where it 
would. 

Agnes was both amazed and greatly distressed 
at the mistress’s condition, and planned little sur- 
prises which were to arouse her from it. She asked 
Diana’s advice on numerous small matters of house- 
hold management, with the hope that she might even 
be contradicted or scolded. But there was always 
the same monotonous response, “ Do as you please 
about it; it is nothing to me; I do not care; do 
not trouble me, Agnes. What was it you said? 
Oh ! I did not hear you. You must excuse me.” 

So true was it that Chaters House took its tone 
from its young mistress, that it became in these days 
a house of mourning. Sir Paris remained much in 
his own room, reading, or was out with some gentle- 
men at supper of an evening, until he found that 
Diana missed him and would rather he remained 
with her, though often she scarcely spoke at all for 
an hour at a stretch. He fell into Agnes’s habit of 
asking her little trivial questions to break these long, 
gray, terrible silences of hers. 

One morning, pausing in the hall on his way out, 
he turned what tried to be a very bright face back 



Why, Diana, I had no more than usual — 
indeed, there was no drinking at the colonel’s table 
as we used to consider drinking at home in London 
— there never is. There must have been more in 
the servant’s hall, for Siska was thoroughly drunk. 
(Ah, I miss Junius. The rogue’s head could stand 
a gallon. ) And when I overtook a worthy man going 
my way, I joined myself to him, for safety and 
companionship, rather than trust an intoxicated 
black.” 

“ You brought a stranger home with you? Was 
he tall or short? Did you see his face? Did you 
bring him into the house? Was he a soldier?” 

“ Lord, Diana!” demurred her uncle, “how can 
a man answer all your questions at once — waked 
up in the middle of the night to do it? I am chilled 
with this night wind. Hand me that dressing-robe, 
there’s a good soul.” 

“ The stranger ! ” Diana gasped, in her urgency 
almost pitching the garment at her uncle. “ Has he 
been long gone? Did he ask of me?” 

“Of you ? ” echoed the old gentleman, staring in 
surprise. “ What should he know of you, my niece, 
to ask ? He was a stranger in Savannah. The time 
is past, my beauty, when every new gallant must 
pay his tribute to your charms. You are a wedded 
wife now, Mistress Robert Marshall, and must hold 
yourself sedately,” and he chuckled fondly. 

Diana fairly groaned with impatience. “ Was the 
stranger tall or short ? ” she repeated. 

“ Why — ah — yes, my dear, I think he was, 
rather tall. Or, stay! Not so tall, neither; indeed, 
you would, perhaps, call him short. I remember, 
he put me in mind of a couplet in Congreve’s — 





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321 

edgment through General Oglethorpe. Nay, she 
would make her amends privately, but she would 
make them thoroughly. It was a generous heart 
which sent the hot blood through this child’s body 
and tuned it often to outbursts of temper. 

Below on the lawn, all glittering white light and 
inky pools of shadow, Robert stood and looked up 
at the window. 

His boat had broken the blade of its rudder, and 
was halted for repairs at Skidaway. The craving to 
know how all went within this home had made him 
take the canoe and an Indian rower for a night trip, 
and slip into Savannah. By the merest chance, he 
had overtaken Sir Paris on the street; and seeing 
that gentleman’s condition, and that he was accom- 
panied by a new servant who would not recognise 
himself, ventured to address the baronet and bring 
him home to Chaters House. Sir Paris having 
much difficulty in mounting the steps, Robert had 
helped him even into the hall, and there dropped 
the glove, which was not in fact the mate of the 
one Diana carried, but fellow to another like it. 

“ O God ! O God ! ” the girl moaned, clinging to 
the window-sill and looking out, “ I am ready to 
give up. Pride — what is it ? Life is too short 
for such bickerings. If he were only here, I would 
go on my knees to him. I would tell him ” — a 
great tearless sob shook her — “ if he knew all, he 
could not be hard with me.” 

Hungry eyes were questioning the house’s front 
for they dared not say what. Under the shelter of 
the live-oaks Robert turned, and, with the heart in 
his breast crying out against it, pleading to stay, 



CHAPTER II. 


thunderbolt's ancestry 

“ They’ve come by ane, by twa, by three, 

And whiles they rade, and whiles they rin. 

But whan they won down to the rairin’ sea. 

Says, ‘ Ta’en alive I’ll nevir bee/ 

An’ leugh in their faces, an’ loupit in.” 

O LD DAD BUCKALOO had spoken of his 
plantation on Cumberland Island, and the 
other, his main place of residence, on the 
St. Mary's down near St. Augustine — barely 
within the limits of the Georgia Province, and with 
the great Okefenokee swamp at its back. 

Indeed, old Dad cared not under which king his 
indigo, corn, and tobacco grew, or his deer ran wild ; 
for he was himself king of his own country, judge 
supreme of his own court, jury and priest, physician 
and pope of the whole tribe about him. 

The place on the mainland, of which there now 
remains nothing but a trace of the massive tappy 
walls, — gone back to a gravelly looking ridge over 
which the wild vines scramble, — and some cypress 
piles driven into the bank where the landing was, 
presented in that day an appearance strangely 
mingled of civilised and savage occupation. 

There was the house, low, rambling, walled with 
tappy and roofed with great cypress shingles split 
323 





RETURN 


325 

Though holding no official position in the tribe, 
Buckaloo was regarded among the lower Creeks as 
in some sense a chief, and there were a number of 
families always attached to him in the capacity of 
guests, humble retainers, or even servants. These 
hunted and fished, worked fitfully in the corn-fields, 
and gathered the roots, berries, and fruits which 
the red men used as food. 

The great Table was never without its score of 
dark-faced, seldom-speaking guests; and the un- 
grudging hospitality which made his house as the 
house of a father, to his wife’s kinsmen, gained their 
hearts as no other white man had ever gained them. 
Families came and set up their lodge in his door- 
yard, lived there for a few days or weeks, or even 
years, and went their way unquestioned. They were 
welcomed and sped as though the house and its fields 
belonged to them. 

The big black horse which won the quarter races 
for old Dad Buckaloo at Savannah had a history. 

When, nearly two hundred years before that, 
De Soto’s vast, lawless, picturesque train of Spanish 
cavaliers, gentleman-adventurers, and broken noble- 
men, served and followed by a fringe of hardy 
rascals, swept up from Florida, working their way 
west, they took a course through the morasses and 
across the easily traversed savannahs of Georgia. 

This mingled rout of noblemen, soldiers, and 
riff-raff carried with it the most credulous of beliefs, 
and sought, with a mixture of savage gust and 
infantile expectation, the baubles of fairyland. 
Treasure in this wild country; gold from the very 
sands of the sea; the frontier of the Great Khan’s 



RETURN 


327 

He early learned to recognise firearms. If he 
were pursued while carrying away some new con- 
quest, he never hesitated to turn and show fight, 
even making as if to attack the saddle-horses of 
his pursuers, striving to hold them while his prize 
should escape into his wild haunts. But let guns or 
pistols be out among the party, the keen rascal doffed 
his valorous aspect, and, once satisfied that his prize 
could not hold his pace and so make good their 
escape, he resigned her thereupon, and, with a final 
snort of disdain, a toss of the head and a flourish 
of the tail, was off, to preserve his own skin whole 
for other incursions and depredations. 

This magnificent and intrepid creature came very 
naturally to be credited by many of both Indians and 
colonists with uncanny powers, and was variously 
called the Devil Horse, the Daft Horse, and the 
King of the Savannahs. The most popular view 
was that he was a little mad — very much as Alex- 
ander Buckaloo was mad, — with pride and egotism 
and inordinate vainglory. 

Old Buckaloo himself at this time had a mare of 
high strain, of satin gaits, iron endurance, and 
bottomless staying power. She was a pure white, 
with the delicate skin, fine hair, large, lustrous black 
eyes, and affectionate temper of her Arabian for- 
bears. Mistress Golightly had been reared mostly 
by Lit’s hand. The old man, ever a shrewd judge 
and admirer of fine horse-flesh, had brought her 
home, a tender colt, from a trading-ship which had 
been blown out of her course, come to grief, and 
been glad to put in at Savannah, instead of turning 
back to Charles Town, whither she was bound. 

Old Dad’s horse-raising plantation was on the 



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329 

Then som.e Creek runners of Oglethorpe’s, or some 
cattle-hunters, got sight of her — with a superb, 
high-headed, flying-hoofed, black colt beside her. 

Word went to Buckaloo*, telling him where to look 
for the white mare and her splendid progeny. 

The party old Dad raised for this undertaking 
was the largest that had ever set out in pursuit of 
the black stallion. The horse was an Ishmael ; every 
man’s hand was against him. Scotchmen from 
Fort St. Andrew’s on Cumberland Island; Salz- 
burgers and officers from Frederica; Englishmen 
from outlying plantations, and Dad’s own people, 
the Creeks ; all had been robbed by this high-handed 
gallant, and all rallied to the chase, eager to be in 
at his capture or death. And with them went every 
loose, roistering blade, every adventurous fellow 
not for the moment otherwise employed. 

The hunt streamed out from Dad’s plantation- 
house, where it had rendezvoused, at daylight of a 
gray November morning, with much noisy dem- 
onstration. They sighted the kingly black and his 
family — among them Mistress Golightly and her 
tall black colt — not far from the spot where she 
had first been seen. The sire gave warning, and the 
group started off far ahead of the hunters, the 
stallion keeping always in the rear, and between his 
charges and their pursuers. 

As the hunters lay down to their work, as mile 
after mile was traversed at terrific speed, one and 
another of those with the black confessed defeat, 
lagged and lagged, to finally sheer out sidewise 
and drop back into the pursuers’ rank. 

Three times had this happened. Three times 
some mare was overtaken, identified, and her owner, 



return 


331 

then sprang into the stream, and “ God in heaven! 
Saw you ever such swimming ?” cried Buckaloo’s 
left-hand neighbour; for the great horse swam in- 
credibly high. He seemed to ride half out of water 
like a crank boat, and his strokes sent him ahead like 
the propulsion of powerful machinery. 

Midstream, he raised his head and neighed a 
fierce cheer to his mate and young on the further 
bank. A few more tremendous strokes, and he 
came lashing up out of the river, spurning the water 
from him in a cloud of spray, and the reunited group 
set off once more together, while the riders follow- 
ing them must seek for a ford above, and so lose 
more time. 

Unnoticed in the excitement of the chase, the 
gray of morning had deepened, so that this notable 
chase ended in an afternoon of blowing rain. 

Buckaloo was mounted on a big-boned gray, of 
fine wind and a staunch stayer. Of those who rode 
away from his own door beside or behind him at 
dawn that morning, not one now kept him company. 
And Buckaloo himself was on one of his roaring, 
hallooing sprees, drunk with excitement as ever man 
was drunk with drinking, gone back twenty years 
and more to his early pirate days. 

Alone, he went thundering and clumping forward 
on the powerful gray — which had outheld every- 
thing on four feet — ranting, chanting, snatching 
off his bonnet, and shouting to the winds, with the 
drops gemming his flying black mane of hair and 
beard, his black eyes blazing in his uplifted white 
face, his nostrils spread, his teeth flashing in exul- 
tant smiles. 

At the last, the horse — his mare and colt beside 




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333 

death that it was not alone Buckaloo he heard, but 
the wild stallion answering in words. 

The scene that followed — and its strange ending 
— gave colour to this superstition. 

Three men of Captain MacKay’s Highland com- 
pany, who had fallen out of the chase only from 
having lost the way, rounded a little hammock of 
palmetto and live-oak, and drew rein at the foot 
of the slope just as Buckaloo leaped from horse. 
Out of earshot, they saw, while the fisherman, cut 
off from sight, heard. And the scene, split thus, 
reported through one sense by this one, and through 
another sense by those, was at once invested with 
additional weirdness, and had the better chance of 
becoming encrusted with apocrypha. 

“ Yon’s a deid mon,” whispered Donald Tyrcon- 
nell, leaning over his saddle-bow, and breathing 
hard. 

“ He’s mad ! ” shouted young Kilmarnock. 

“ He’s none so mad,” grumbled the old Caithness, 
who had not spoken before. “ He’s none so mad — 
an’ he’ll live to do a power o’ mischief yet. Look 
at yon! ” as Buckaloo began his doffings and bow- 
ings and salutations. 

“ I have ever heard the man was a warlock,” 
again whispered Tyrconnell, half-convinced. 

Then, as they gazed with shrinking, half-incredu- 
lous looks, came the ending of that scene which left 
Buckaloo with the name of warlock for ever fastened 
upon him — among the Scotchmen. 

Seeing his pursuers at the foot of the slope, and 
that all hope was cut off, the big horse rolled a 
desolate eye upon the sea beneath him. He looked 
to the mare, turned his head to regard the figure 




CHAPTER III. 


AN ENCOUNTER 

“ To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare, 

To alwaye spend, and never spare, 

I wott, an it were the king himselve, 

Of gold and fee he mote be bare.” 

B ACK of the big enclosure at Dad Buckaloo’s 
river plantation, the land to the westward 
fell away into depressions, swales, and 
marshes, making itself ready for the final drop into 
the great Okefenokee swamp. 

These marshes were hopeless for the raising of 
any crop, though a good barrier against the approach 
of an enemy, and, in the season, a fair hunting- 
ground for snipe and curlew. 

One day, about the middle of May, old Dad had 
been cattle-hunting there with a friend, none other 
than Captain Tillsford, who should have been with 
his command in Colonel Vanderdussen’s regiment, 
but who found Dad’s rum and company greatly to 
his taste, and having been sent out to purchase beef 
for his mess, remained to drink upon his own 
account. Both men had been drinking heavily when, 
in the dusk of the evening, almost at the door of 
Buckaloo’s house, they met a pale, quiet, young 
fellow, who had ridden down the Darien trail. 

335 




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337 

and clean-shaven. He was also out of uniform; 
and though her quicker woman’s eye had not failed 
to recognise him, she judged that he preferred her 
father should not do so, and she on her part was 
very keen to keep him away from Tillsford. As 
she knelt at his knee reaching for the boots, old 
Dad rounded upon both of them with a bellow of 
laughter. 

“ ’Tis so you young lads spoil the wenches ! ” he 
cried. “ No, let her clean your boots for you — 
she’ll love you for it. A kick into the bargain is 
sometimes not amiss, and seems oft to win a 
woman’s affection when naught else will.” 

Robert made no motion of hearing his host’s 
remark; but the quick-witted Lit turned to her 
father and said : “ The man hath hurt his foot, 
it seems. I will dress it for him when he gets his 
boot off,” and hurried back into the loft for band- 
ages and salves. 

This diversion gave her an excuse for asking him 
to come outside on the porch where she might have 
more light for the work. 

Tillsford, who had just enough drink to make 
him quarrelsome, stared at the two as they passed 
out. “ Why, ’tis a right accommodating fellow,” 
he sneered, “ and falls into his proper place quite 
easily. Having cleaned his own boots, no doubt 
he will go further and clean the boots of the gentle- 
men present.” Tillsford raised his voice and sent 
these remarks after the retreating pair as a sort of 
challenge ; but Marshall appeared not to hear them, 
and neither reddened nor paled. 

“ You are in the wrong box,” Lit breathed to him, 
as she knelt to dress an imaginary hurt upon his 



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339 

Robert told her that he had been able, so far, to 
learn nothing of them; and as he dared not remain 
longer, was returning to General Oglethorpe, who 
lay encamped upon the St. John’s awaiting the rest 
of the promised troops from Charles Town. He 
earnestly charged Lit that, if she could come by any 
word of these much needed Creek warriors, she go 
with it, or send a trusty messenger, to Cumberland, 
whence it would be immediately sent to the general 
by runners. 

Lit set forth to him faithfully all she knew of 
the nearness or the movements of the Spanish. 
Then with a smile she laid her hand on the boy’s 
shoulder. “ I have but one warrior whom I can 
confidently promise the general,” she said. “ Here, 
Lieutenant Marshall, is a man whose heart is with 
his father’s people.” 

The child looked with big, soft, grave eyes from 
one to the other. He evidently saw no jest in the 
matter, and said, quietly : “ I will do anything I 
can now ; and when I am old enough to lead a war- 
party, I will take them to the general, and fight 
beside him.” 

“And what is’t about the black, Junius?” 
inquired Robert. 

Lit told him that the negro had appeared at the 
plantation about three days before. Her father 
claimed to be treating with him for purchase of 
certain lands which Dad had always used for pas- 
turage, and which were now within the Spanish 
lines. 

“ I scarcely think he would have known me as 
I now am,” Robert said. “ I saw him not above 





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34i 

And when the young lieutenant rode away, after 
making definite arrangements with the girl as to 
where she might be met by Oglethorpe’s emissaries 
desiring information, and carrying her promise that 
if anything of importance became known to her, 
she would herself go to the fort on Cumberland 
with the information, Lit’s eyes followed him mourn- 
fully, almost reprehendingly. 

“ My poor dear ! ” she said, “ my poor dear lady ! 
I know well her heart is sore. Oh, I must go to 
her and see how all fares with her ! ” 



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343 

arrival of six splendid half-galleys, manned by two 
hundred regular troops, and armed with long, brass 
nine-pounder guns, and two sloops loaded with pro- 
visions. Whose fault it was that these should have 
been allowed to steal through Matanzas Inlet and 
make the Bay of Augustine well-nigh impregnable, 
is scarcely worth inquiring. The Carolina Assem- 
bly, in a subsequent investigation of the matter, 
stated that the naval commanders promised much 
for this expedition — and did nothing ; which indeed 
would seem to have been the case, for surely there 
was no efficient blockade, when a garrison which 
they hoped to take by assault was permitted to 
receive these large additions to its forces; and a 
town which, the assault failing, they hoped to 
starve into submission by siege, was allowed to 
receive two sloop-loads of provisions. 

There had never been any hope of taking St. 
Augustine from the landward side unless the men- 
of-war who accompanied the expedition could make 
a demonstration to the seaward; either actively 
assisting in the destruction of the fortification, or 
drawing its defenders from that portion of the wall 
which the land force assaulted. 

Shortly after the middle of May, General Ogle- 
thorpe, with a land army numbering over two hun- 
dred regulars, militia, and Indians, moved upon St. 
Augustine. There was a small fort, an outpost on 
the North River, about two miles north of St. 
Augustine, which lay directly in his path. It is 
called in the old chronicles “ The Negro Fort,” be- 
cause it had been built there for the defence of the 
negroes in hunting cattle and horses. A fortified 
line, a considerable portion of which may still be 



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345 

galleys of the Spanish (which, the Lord knows, if 
our ships had been worth the powder wherewith 
they might have been blown up, would never have 
been let to come through Matanzas Inlet) — he says 
to me, sir, mind you, that these galleys were ‘ moored 
in the bay in such wise as made it inconvenient, if 
not dangerous, for him to attack them ! ’ ” 

“ Did he know these facts before the general 
left?” inquired Robert. 

“ Know them ! ” cried the colonel. “ What other 
could he expect than that the enemy would dispose 
of his forces in the very best fashion for defence? 
Did he suppose they liked us well enough to leave 
us an open channel? I asked him, then, would he 
let Captain Warren go in with smaller craft; and 
while he said their pilots told him the undertaking 
was quite too hazardous, he answered to my prop- 
osition that the thing might be done, if there were 
swash enough beside the galleys for to support our 
boats. And, after all, when I was in frenzy enough 
to have swam the bay and my men with me, the 
thing falls through ; back comes the general, and we 
are booked for a siege, which, God knows, we have 
neither cannon nor forces nor supplies to maintain 
— and the commodore telling us at the last council 
of war held that his ships ‘ must be away from these 
coasts by the fifth of July, for the fear of hurri- 
canes ! 9 — the fear of ’em ! ” 

It was to this devoted band at Fort Moosa that 
Robert’s next mission was given him. It had been 
planned that the general would come up, within 
five days of leaving them there, on the fifth of June. 
Matters having developed in such a way that this 
could not be, Robert was sent with a communication 




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347 

they beat to arms at three o’clock every morning, 
fearing an Indian attack, and knowing that such 
attacks were always made just before dawn, he 
was not to be disturbed thereby, as he would be 
roused, when necessity was, by MacKay himself. So 
that having found some uneasy slumber, the roll 
of the drum did not entirely waken him, but he 
turned again on his arm and slept. 

After the disturbance of the call to arms, there 
was a lull. The wind still whispered languidly in 
the palmetto leaves. A little bird had speech with 
her mate. About the fort there was a stealthy- 
footed movement that was not the wind. Some 
presage of coming trouble caused one or two of 
the garrison who had relapsed into sleepy inactivity 
to rouse themselves. 

Suddenly a horse neighed out in the thicket near 
the fort, and then all was confusion. It was four 
o’clock. The dawn was finally beginning to lighten. 
A detachment of five hundred from the garrison at 
Augustine had assaulted the fort. There were a 
few Spaniards among them, but they were mostly 
negroes and Indians, with a party of horse drawn 
up and lining the paths, that none of the besieged 
might escape. 

There came a rattling fire from the small arms 
of the attackers. Robert was on his feet. He be- 
longed to no command, but he ran to Ensign Hugh 
MacKay, who had rallied his Highlanders at the 
gate of the fort. 

“ Colonel Palmer is down,” MacKay said to him, 
as he came up. “ My God ! man, you need some- 
thing other than a small sword,” and he thrust a 
pistol into Robert’s hands. 



return 


349 

their usual methods of warfare, fled in different 
directions when the attack was given up. 

Captain MacKay says in speaking of his being 
permitted to draw off without pursuit, that it was 
because they had “ sadly mauled the enemy; ” as he 
found afterwards that there were two hundred of 
the attackers killed, as against twenty of his men. 
John Moore Macintosh of Darien was taken 
prisoner. 

. When finally the little band got to the water’s 
side, where Lieutenant Cadogan, who chanced to 
come down the river, took them all in and landed 
them upon Point Quartell, where the Carolina regi- 
ment was, Hugh MacKay found to his great dis- 
tress that Lieutenant Robert Marshall was among 
the missing. 

After the massacre at Moosa, as it may well be 
called, the history of the St. Augustine expedition 
declined to a most painful close. The last feeble 
effort was agreed upon on the twenty-third of June. 
Captain Warren, with the boats from the men-of- 
war and the two sloops hired by General Oglethorpe, 
and the vessels which Carolina had sent with their 
militia, had agreed to take the Spanish half-galleys 
in the harbour at a given signal, and the general was 
to attack the trenches. 

This was a desperate measure. The whole of 
the troops belonging to the besiegers, including even 
the seamen, were greatly inferior in numbers to the 
garrison. The town was covered by the castle of 
Augustine, with four bastions and fifty pieces of 
cannon; and from it ran an entrenchment to Fort 
Coovo, on the River Sebastian, which entirely pro- 




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35i 

permitted by their Captors to depart in Peace, that 
the Spanish might thereby curry favour with the 
Creek Nation. These tell me that John Moore Mac- 
intosh, of the Highlanders and of Darien, and sev- 
eral other white men, are Prisoners in the Castle of 
Augustine, if they have not already been sent to 
Madrid, as was the plan when these Creeks left 
Augustine. It is almost certain to my mind that 
of these men your Husband is one; and I am mak- 
ing, and shall make, such efforts as will not only 
discover to us his Whereabouts, but shall hope to 
make those which will bring about his Restoration 
to his Friends. 

“ I am ill, at this writing, of a Feaver. But that 
will soon pass, and I hope to have brave News for 
you when I see you once more. Despite many 
distressful Happenings, our Armies have not been 
without Victory in this Expedition. 

“ Commend me to your respected Uncle, and 
believe me, 

“ My dear Madam, 

“ Your most devoted 
“ And most Ob’dh 

“ Humble Servh to command, 

“ James Oglethorpe.” 




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353 

demanded, where would our poor girl have been 
now, without this skilled man to attend upon her ? ” 

Suddenly, through the hush which followed his 
words, there pricked that cry, tiny and strident, 
which is like none other. Sir Paris went flat 
against the wall, supporting himself with backward- 
spread hands, regarding Hastie with piteous dilated 
eyes, and lips as mute as her own. In that moment 
the silent lady was a poor comforter; for she could 
not stop to pencil the hasty word which another 
woman might have flung over her shoulder as she 
fled. 

There the poor baronet remained, scarce daring to 
breathe, or to so much as withdraw a finger from 
the wall behind him, for all the world like an owl 
on a barn-door. To this figure of Apprehension 
came out presently the bright-faced, scholarly old 
physician, offering a kindly hand, and saying, “ I 
am come to congratulate you, Sir Paris. God has 
remembered His daughter in exceeding mercy and 
kindness. Unto her a son is born, and unto us a 
man-child this day. Tis a beautiful fine nephew you 
have.” Sir Paris could have fallen on the gentle 
Jew’s neck and wept for pure relief and gratitude. 

Inside that chamber, Diana lay, for the first time 
in her life, with every fibre of her body and soul 
at peace, and in harmony with all the rest of the 
universe. She had been coming toward this great 
revolution of motherhood — the Chaters women 
were all born for maternity, and gloried in it, and 
made it glorious — and now, when her son was laid 
on her arm, she felt that all the days before this day 
had been mere uncounted moments of preparation. 
She found at once the answer to all questions, the 



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355 

You were both sleeping so sweetly that I would not 
suffer any to disturb you.” 

As Diana reached over, and with fingers suddenly 
grown skilful, uncovered the little face beside her, 
Sir Paris went down on his knees that he might 
examine it the more closely. 

“ A fine boy,” he said, with an air of experience. 
“ Why, Diana,” as the child puckered its tiny fea- 
tures in sleep, “ he hath Robert’s dimples.” 

The mother laughed a little gurgling laugh. “ He 
is all dimples for a while yet,” she said; “ but I do 
believe it, uncle. His eyes are very dark now, but 
they will be blue like Robert’s, not gray like mine.” 

“And the name?” Sir Paris went on, a little 
ruefully. “ I had hoped that you might call him 
‘ Hector ’ ; but of course you are wholly set upon the 
name of Robert.” 

“ No,” Diana returned, “ I got my name for him 
last night, or — all times do so swim together with 
me now — at least, it came to me half- waking and 
half-sleeping. It is not Robert.” 

“ IvTor Hector ? ” put in Sir Paris timidly. 

“ No,” she repeated, with her old frankness 
grown very winning. “You know, as well as any 
one, dear uncle, why I should give such a name to 
the baby ; I have decided to call him ‘ Return.’ ” 

Sir Paris glanced at her with quick comprehen- 
sion, and gently nodded; then leaned back in his 
chair and regarded the baby with the eye of a con- 
noisseur. “ ’Tis a request — or a command — no 
man could resist,” he said, smilingly. 

After quite a long silence, “ Uncle,” spoke Diana, 
“ were you beside the bowling-green at Colonel 



return 


357 

sion to bring Belinda in and formally present her 
to the heir. 

“ Best put it off,” Diana laughed; “ she will not 
like him, uncle. Petted animals ever feel a distaste 
for infants ; a jealousy, too, I suppose, poor things.” 

“ Distaste? Jealousy? ” echoed Sir Paris, sternly. 
“ It would be better for her that she display no such 
— sentiments or — or — emotions as that in my 
presence.” 

“ Why, uncle,” Diana remonstrated, “ ’twould 
not be strange that she should even snap at him.” 

“ Snap at him ! ” cried the baronet, aghast. “ If 
such a thing as that occurred, I give you my word, 
Diana, between Belinda and myself everything will 
be at an end. I would support her to the close of 
her days,” he added, magnanimously ; “ but counte- 
nance her, I would not.” 

With this appeared the awkward Siska bearing 
Belinda. The baby, who was awake, and moving 
his hands about in what Sir Paris considered a very 
remarkable fashion, was presented for her observa- 
tion. At first, she resolutely turned her head away 
and looked through the window. Being sternly 
desired by her master to bring her vision to bear 
upon what was before her, she turned and swept 
a gaze of sick disgust over the small, helpless, con- 
temptible intruder, with his preposterous complexion. 

Sir Paris was humiliated, but not entirely dis- 
couraged. He thought it worth while to make one 
more effort, before having her removed in disgrace; 
and asked that the child be laid upon his knees, so 
that she might understand the necessity of loyalty 
to it. 

The women now were standing about watching 




RETURN 


359 

liking. Here, she later justified Sir Paris’s evil 
opinion of her by treating him not only as a rank 
stranger, but as an unacceptable candidate for her 
acquaintance. 

She put the finishing touch to his dark belief 
when, some twenty months later, Sir Paris passed 
her new residence, little Return staggering valiantly 
beside him, clutching his finger. The baronet — 
full of love and ruth for all creatures for the baby’s 
adored sake — hesitated for an instant before 
Belinda, occupying a cushion on the doorstep; 
whereupon she raised a cold, repelling glance to 
the usurper, and bared her teeth in what we may 
charitably hope was a sneer, but Sir Paris declared, 
so long as he lived, was a ferocious snarl. 

But now, at the door, Sir Paris turned back. 
“ O, the porringer, my dear. I have found an 
excellent good silversmith among the Salzburgers, 
and will have that name put on if you will permit 
me.” 

This peace and glory which now came to Diana 
and to those about her, as a sudden revelation — she 
had built it from day to day, back in her time of 
despair, when she was struggling up out of that 
pit which herself had digged, not willing to live, 
hardly ready to die; only, at the end of very dreary 
effort, winning to a ground where she felt she could 
take a wrecked and ruined life and make the best 
of it. 

She had been learning to love not only Robert, 
but all humanity, during these long hours when, 
for the first time in her life, she had sat and sewed ; 
when her uncle had so pitied her that all the slight 
grudge which his gentle nature could hold was 



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361 

Lit drew back and regarded the child for a mo- 
ment; then some position which his baby hands 
took upon the great yellow ball between them, some 
turn of the small, capped head above, touched a 
chord of remembrance, and she laughed out. 
“ Surely, surely,” Lit agreed, coming back to her 
seat on the grass at Diana’s feet, “ ’tis like enough 
for a picture of his very self instead of — ” 

Diana’s musing voice broke in upon her speech, 
“ It is most strange and wonderful to me,” she said, 
“ that I should have been so moved by a picture that 
is the very portrait of this my child, and thought 
I had a memory of such a face, when I did look upon 
it. Can memory really work backward, think you, 
Lit? Was it a prophecy instead? ” 

Lit laughed, and looked up at her fondly, “ Is’t 
possible,” she asked, “ that with all my gabble — 
and I talk continually when I am with you, Mistress 
Marshall; the Lord knows my Indian blood doth 
not show there — is’t possible that I never told ye 
how that miniature was Lieutenant Marshall’s? 
’Tis strange you should never have seen it amongst 
his belongings.” 

Diana went to the boy, caught him up, and 
scanned every feature. “ If I had needed a proof,” 
she said, at last, softly, “that my marriage to 
Robert was ordained by Heaven, I have it here. I 
have never thought about that little picture without 
a strange tugging at my heart-strings. And so, 
’twas Robert’s face. His mother looked upon it 
and loved it, even as I thee, heart’s treasure,” and 
she covered Return’s cheeks with kisses. 

Robert’s papers and private belongings, left behind 
and sent to Chaters House, had never been opened. 




CHAPTER VI. 


the Cameron's defeat 

“ And whatna hold s’all we draw to, 

My merry men and me? 

We will up an’ gae to the house o’ the Rhodes, 

To taunt that fayre lay dye.” 

LITTLE lonely child, a sturdy, fair-haired 



boy of two, not yet out of frocks, playing 


X JL in a great, gloomy, still room, with a quaint 
primer and a big old black-letter Bible, whose 
strange, gruesome pictures are a source of mingled 
horror and delight. Suddenly the door opens, and 
a woman’s face looks in, a mother’s face, instinct 
with the majesty of motherhood and womanhood 
from the broad, fair brow and direct, honest gray 
eyes, to the sweet, serene lips and softly moulded 


chin. 


“Return,” she says, smiling indulgently, “ I have 
made a soldier’s cap for thee — come, my son ; 
leave the books; remember thy father is a soldier. 
Come and learn the art of war.” 

In the two years since the birth of her child, 
Diana had heard no word of that child’s father. 
A nature less high-couraged would have broken 
down under the strain. The times were so troubled, 
the chances of war so various, that there was left 


363 




RETURN 365 

battles, for there were great barriers of reality to 
be beaten down and overpassed. She was indeed 
greatly come into her kingdom; but not entirely 
so, for she still felt, with a touch of the old Diana, 
that motherhood made of her a throned empress, 
and that Robert, though in her loving heart she 
now called him king, must come eagerly back to 
an adoring vassalage. 

And while she waited in happy confidence for 
Robert to come back, her household and friends 
had now in her such a great lady, such an example 
and tower of strength, as she had once attempted 
to be, and arrogantly asserted that she was. 

The result was come to in a somewhat different 
fashion from any she had ever conceived. Her 
word was absolute in her own home, her counsel 
regarded abroad, because she had proved herself 
wise, and made herself loved. 

Her house was left greatly to Agnes’s manage- 
ment, while she gave such assistance to Oglethorpe 
as a woman could, and was as active in the adminis- 
tration of her own large properties. Into this latter 
occupation she carried her newly-found talisman of 
love, and met there her uncle, Sir Paris, as co- 
adjutor and friend. He put forth, toward the genial 
warmth of her respect and good-will, attractions, 
graces, wisdom, of which his niece had in the old 
days roundly declared him incapable. A well-stored, 
reflective mind, tolerant largeness of view, and below 
any surface eccentricities or peevishness an invin- 
cible sweetness of temper, and a quiet constancy, — 
these were the virtues the new Diana found in the 
new Sir Paris. 

He who had been a tiresome Lord Fanny, a 



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367 

gether liked the older man’s story; and each time 
Cameron repeated or embellished it, the youth found 
it yet less to 1 his taste. Now he turned to the speaker 
with : 

This poor, scorned, derided family which, when 
>pu flung your glove in its collective face, ran away 
pitifully to Savannah — James Oglethorpe’s city of 
refuge for poor debtors and rejected ladies — sup- 
posing they are here, Major? ” 

Cameron had been for some moments ogling a 
pretty girl who was walking slowly toward them; 
and being paid back with saucy glances and the 
toss of a dark head. When Pawlet made this 
observation, he drew rein. “ Where do Sir Paris 
Chaters and his niece live, Beauty ? ” he asked 
amiably. 

“ There, Beast,” she retorted, pointing to Chaters 
House, which the horsemen had just passed. 

With a roar of laughter, and a blowing of kisses 
to the nimble-witted young Hebe, the party turned 
back toward the house. 

Then before Cameron could reply, young Pawlet 
clapped him on the shoulder, and cried, “ Come, 
what say you, I’ll lay you the lace ruffles I won of 
Quarterman yesterday, against — a pot of ale — 
against anything — nothing — that, if this be not 
one of your fables, if there verily were such people, 
and they be indeed here in Savannah, you dare not 
go and show yourself to them, now. Come, a 
wager ! a wager ! ” 

“ Aye, dare I not ? ” cried Cameron. “ You shall 
see ! ” 

His reckless blood was up, as the other had in- 



RETURN 369 

splendidly out into the hall, calling softly, “ Agnes 
— Agnes ! ” 

But no Agnes answered her, though her great 
hooped skirts of brocade brushed close to the foot 
of one who crouched in the embrasure of the hall 
window, the curtains clutched about her small, shak- 
ing form, cowering with icy, numb hands, dry 
throat, and dilated eyes that gazed (herself hidden 
alike from those within the house and those without) 
at the object of her long quest, come before her 
vision once more when she had at last found partial 
peace in relinquishment. 

Failing reply, Diana flew to Ma’am Daphne in 
her kitchen. 

“ You must send Pompey to the door, Daphne,” 
she directed ; “ and when I ring, do you bring my 
son in.” 

As Archie entered the hall, Diana came sweeping 
down the stairway, paused at its foot, and made him 
a grand curtsey. Something in her bearing, a new- 
come womanliness, a dignity, even the fact that the 
measure of her beauty had doubled, robbed Cameron 
of the power to address her as he had intended. He 
stood, hat in hand, halting like a chidden schoolboy, 
and finally faltered out, “ I am come back, my Lady 
Di. Have — have you no welcome for me?” 

“ Your pardon, sir,” returned Diana, and her 
voice showed him yet more the change in her. It 
was fuller, richer, more musical than of old; but 
most noticeable of all, it was now a voice to be 
heard in any assembly; to instantly arrest by its 
fine under-note of power, but to win its cause after 
all by sheer, moving sweetness. “ Your pardon, sir, 






RETURN 


371 

I been in earnest in my wooing, yon had wed a 
scoundrel. And so you thank me for the treachery 
that left you free.” 

Diana bowed gravely. 

“ You are angry with me still,” he smiled, con- 
fident of rewinning a heart once deemed utterly 
his own. “ But sweet Di, I shall change all that.” 
He drew near and would have taken her hand. 

Sinking on one knee, forgetful of the men behind 
him on the street, who through the open doorway 
might see all, “ Ah, dearest,” he urged, “ I have 
loved no woman ever, save only you. You, proud, 
imperious thing, were the first to command this 
wayward heart. The eagle seeks the eagle for 
mate; and, sweetheart, one so fair cannot long be 
unkind to him whose heart she holds in fee.” 

Diana drew back with haughty pride. “ Rise, 
sir,” she replied. “ You do not address Diana 
Chaters. You are not speaking to a spinster. Your 
words are to Mistress Marshall, wife of Captain 
Robert Marshall, of General Oglethorpe’s army.” 

“ By God ! ” cried Cameron. “ There’s pride ! 
You’ve taken the name of one of those tag-rag 
canaille rather than bear the shame I put you to — 
poor girl ! ” 

“ Major Cameron,” returned Diana, “ this is 
my husband’s house. In it I allow no man to miscall 
him. ’Tis true my marriage followed hard upon 
your open jilting of me. Being made the sport of 
a fiend put me in mind, maybe, to appreciate a 
man.” 

“ A really charming man such as this ignis fatuus 
husband of yours, whom you picked up at a 
moment’s notice, must be,” sneered Cameron. 




RETURN 


373 

the floor. Thereafter, she heard but did not see what 
passed below. 

The negress bobbed a stiff, sour curtsey to the 
visitor, and set the child down, when he ran to 
Diana, clasped her skirts and looked back over his 
shoulder, eyeing the intruder. Diana lifted him 
and held him confronting her recreant lover. “ ’Tis 
a miniature,” she said, breathing a little short, “ but 
done in colours, and excellently like — to the life.” 

Cameron looked at the two proud creatures, utterly 
helpless, yet full of the high courage, the indomitable 
spirit that recks not physical advantage or disad- 
vantage. The boy was very fair. A frank, brave, 
haughty baby face ; the face of a child born to the 
purple. The sight of her mother’s pride shamed 
something in the man. He put forward his sword 
hilt. “ Come, young soldier,” he said, “ see the 
pretty toy. Come take it.” 

Return looked the man over with those big blue 
eyes of infancy whose candour is at times so terrible, 
and answered only with a little shrugging gesture 
and a shifting of his glance to Diana. It was as 
though with that motion he put Cameron clean out 
of his world. 

For some occult reason this cut as Diana’s re- 
proaches had not done. “ What ails him ? Is he 
not friendly? ” he asked her, uneasily. “ Brats and 
dogs ever take to me.” 

“ My son is like his father,” returned Diana ; “ so 
like that you will have no need for other portrait 
to know him by. And, believe me, sir, his father’s 
attitude will be his. For both of us — all of us — 
you no longer exist.” 

A little time Cameron stood, striving to make his 



RETURN 


375 

much a man as that great braggart,” and she buried 
her face in Return’s pinafore, laughing. 

Agnes listening, her mouth in the dust, quivered 
with rage at the insolent sound. So utter was her 
subjugation to the idea of this man, so like a mortal 
disease her insatiable love and longing for him, that 
it hurt his empire over her not one whit. It only 
made her furious at those who so used him. 

As Archie came down the step, Lit volleying 
laughter in his back, he tried in vain to screw his 
face to the careless, sneering smile of the conqueror, 
to time his step to the victor’s strut. In vain he 
cocked his hat; the face beneath it bore flinching 
eyes, a vanquished mouth; the renegade muscles of 
his legs and back traitorously betrayed him to the 
foe most deadly to him, — the ridicule of others. 

Cameron’s companions, sitting below on their 
horses, had seen a great part of the interview and 
his discomfiture. Now they heard the laughter 
which followed him, and joined, as is the way of 
the world, to give the under dog a kick. 

“ Who’s this,” cried old Hinchingbroke, “ that 
comes halting back to us with a purser’s grin on’s 
face? Is this the game-cock that we sent in but 
now to strut and lord it ? ” 

Cameron mounted his horse sullenly. “ Times 
have changed, it seems,” he growled, “ since last I 
met the lady.” 

“ Perhaps not so greatly as you think,” young 
Amyce Pawlet rejoined. “ ’Twas that open door 
that was to blame. Had it been shut we had heard 
a different — ” 

Cameron turned furiously on him. 

“ Look not so black on me. No lady could make 




RETURN 


377 

and the mere curiosity which he had then excited, 
she measured somewhat her soul’s growth. Like 
all the sermons of this wonderful man, it was a fiery 
discourse, a searching arraignment. Many there 
were who wept and openly abjured their sins, even 
as in the humble crowd about him at the Christmas 
fair. But Diana, on her knees, her great gray eyes 
fastened on his face, drank in every word as though 
it were addressed directly and singly to her own 
soul. Yet after the service was over and she was once 
more going to her home, of all the thoughts which 
he had given her, one remained active and fiery 
within her breast. 

Love, he had told them, is not getting, but spend- 
ing; it is not receiving, but giving. True love is 
service. She looked back on her love for Robert 
Marshall. She had thought herself a queen in gen- 
erosity when she stood ready to receive him, to 
requite his love with love as warm. She had sent out 
her hopes for him to come back to her. Now she real- 
ised that such love as her eyes were opened to believe 
in, could only be expressed by setting forth to hunt 
him; by taking humbly, willingly, joyfully, the posi- 
tion of suitor. And before she had reached her 
own door, she had planned to close the house in 
Savannah, leave her uncle at Sapelo or Wynnewoode 
as he should elect, and go herself down to General 
Oglethorpe at St. Simons as a first stage in that 
personal search for her husband which her whole 
soul now rose all ardour to prosecute. 

It is strange — or we who are not clear seers 
count it strange — how sudden resolution to adopt 
a course brings all matters connected with the action 
into the hand of the one so resolving. 



RETURN 


379 

some way of which I do not know. You are deter- 
mined to force me to be unjust to you. If you hate 
me too much to take from my willing, nay, my 
loving, hands your proper due, so be it. I shall 
say no more. ,, 

But pale Agnes retreated before those outstretched 
hands with a sort of horror. “ Nay/’ she muttered, 
“ I bear you no ill-will ; why should I ? But this 
house is not the place for me. I — ” 

She broke off suddenly. Denying her denials, 
♦ there was hatred in that poor face, and a strange, 
still fury. Little Return, treading in his mother’s 
footsteps, caught her eye, and she flew to him, 
gathered him up to her sore heart with a bitter 
cry, and fell to weeping over him as though she 
would never cease. 

“ Agnes’s baby ! Agnes’s boy ! ” she repeated, 
rocking him softly on her breast. “ Oh, it is hard 
to leave the little man ! ” 

“ Come, come,” interrupted Diana, attempting to 
assume a lighter and more practical tone. “ What 
is it, Agnes ? Out with it. Has somebody affronted 
you ? Are you angry ? ” 

“ No, no, no,” sobbed Agnes miserably, “ not 
angry now; I have been; only most wretched. Ask 
me nothing, Mistress Marshall. I must go. There 
is — there is — a friend — needs me in — in the 
place I came from.” 

So evident was it that questions were painful, 
that Diana refrained them entirely. Agnes was a 
woman of some years, and one who might be sup- 
posed to be old enough to* make her own decisions ; 
yet so ominous did this matter appear, so little joy 
was there in her going, that Diana’s heart ached for 



CHAPTER VII. 


ALATA ANAWAQUA 

“ And she’s pu’d aff her gowne of green, 

And pit on ragged attire. 

And all about that land she would goe, 

Of her true love to enquire.” 

W ITH characteristic energy and address, 
Diana set about preparations for going 
south. She admitted to herself, but to 
no other soul, a belief that Robert had intentionally 
separated himself from her, and that a desire to 
make this separation final accounted for his dis- 
appearance. Had she even known where a letter 
might be sent to him, she dreaded that he would 
not receive or read it. 

Lit was going back down the coast; Sir Paris, 
very willing to divide his time between Sapelo and 
the Isle of Hope; Chaters House was to be closed. 
Her uncle had offered most freely to accompany 
her, but she put this offer aside, touched with the 
evidence of devotion, and feeling that for a man of 
his age and habits to proffer leaving his home and 
belongings upon such a quest was indeed an ultimate 
test of affection. 

She had at first thought to go down by boat; 
later, decided that they would take the overland 
38i 



RETURN 


383 

taxed to the utmost, to protect his little band of im- 
poverished colonists, defending whom, he defended 
the entire country. His lot was to bear in patience 
the taunts of Spanish foes, the calumny of colonial 
enemies, the censure of those who could not com- 
prehend his retreat from Augustine; and yet, amidst 
it all, to sustain with a pitiful handful of troops the 
posts he had established. He felt pledged to pro- 
tect Georgia from invasion, when even the smallest 
military knowledge conceded its almost defenceless 
state. 

“ Oglethorpe had to contend,” says his historian, 
“ not only with the Spanish foes, but with the 
restless Indians, — with the clamorous settlement, 
with discontented troops, with meagre supplies, — 
with the defection of Carolina, with the protest of 
his bills, and the refusal of a just naval protection.” 

There was indeed little money for his enterprises. 
His private means were heavily taxed for the public 
weal. Yet, unrelaxing in his vigilance, he kept 
parties of Indians — that soldiery so devoted to 
him, so ready to his hand, and so cheaply paid — 
hovering about the frontiers of Florida. These 
occasionally brought in a Spanish prisoner, since 
Oglethorpe was one English commander who was 
able to induce the Indians to bring their prisoners to 
him, instead of disposing of them in their usual 
ghastly fashion. 

Toonahowi, more than a year after Robert’s cap- 
ture at Moosa, led a band of Creeks up to the very 
walls of Augustine, near which they took Don 
Romualdo Ruiz del Moral, Lieutenant of Spanish 
Horse, and nephew of the late governor. The 



return 


385 

fort was the king’s storehouse and arsenal, the court 
of justice and the chapel, two- large spacious build- 
ings of brick and timber. 

The town was surrounded by a rampart, with 
flankers of the same thickness of that around the 
fort. Outside of that was a dry, palisadoed ditch, 
which, according to Diana’s suggestion to Ogle- 
thorpe, during that family conclave at Wynnewoode, 
had been provided with gates to admit the influx 
of the tide when desired. The fort overlooked 
a marsh in which a battery of guns was set, very 
nearly level with the water, and calculated to do 
deadly work upon an enemy’s shipping. In the bay 
before the town, vessels of great burden might lie 
safely alongside its wharf, and upon occasion haul 
up to careen and refit, there being a good bottom of 
clay mixed with sand and shells. 

The whole town was about a mile and a half in 
circumference; and outside of it to the east, across 
a great savannah, might be seen several beautiful 
plantations, General Oglethorpe’s among the num- 
ber, while at the end of the road leading that way 
was the German village of Salzburger fishermen. 

At this date, the houses built in Frederica were 
more solid and pretentious than those in Savannah 
itself. The island town had come later than the 
city which was destined to be the metropolis of the 
colony, and for a time seemed well-nigh to out- 
grow it. Later, when the expulsion of the Spaniard 
from Florida rendered these forts and fortified towns 
of the Sea Islands unnecessary for defence, their 
usefulness being past, they sank into decay, to be 
re-born when the country, whose infancy they de- 



RETURN 387 

My Indians are here under Toona'howi. Truly this 
is now no place for women and children.” 

Diana smiled resolutely. “ Why, my dear gen- 
eral,” she said, “ you have women and children here. 
Believe me, we can accept such chances of war as 
do they.” 

The two women and the baby were given the gen- 
eral’s villa, the only home which he ever possessed 
in America. 

Lit was full of secret tremblings. A perturbation 
and disquiet that she could not hide possessed her. 
She eagerly asked the general for news of her 
father. Oglethorpe knew nothing ; and more appre- 
hensive than ever, she went among some of her 
Scotch friends inquiring of Buckaloo’s whereabouts. 
They told her that he was at Cumberland, bringing 
up supplies of cattle for the provisioning of the 
garrison at Frederica. And after seeing Diana com- 
fortably settled, she asked and was given leave to 
go south to him. 

The second day after Diana’s advent, there 
arrived at the island, from the north, a very famous 
Indian queen, Alata, who was at the head of a 
branch of the Upper Creek Confederacy. She came 
desiring to purchase supplies, and offering warriors 
to the general. 

Diana was called, with others, to the lookout of 
the fort to see these Indians come down, and a very 
imposing sight they were. The deputation came in 
three long periaguas, that which contained the queen 
leading, and the other two holding positions to the 
right and left, and half a length in the rear, moving 
as steadily as though the three boats were operated 
by one mechanism. The warriors were in full 





RETURN 389 

understood it, Diana alone) would appear at the 
dance in robes of state. 

“ When I prepared for this journey,” Diana 
replied smilingly, “ I did not expect that I should 
be called upon to do homage to a queen. I have 
with me for wear, scarce more than a pilgrim’s 
hodden-gray; but I will do what I may to honour 
this stately young majesty. What like will the 
dance be, General Oglethorpe? So long as I have 
lived in this land, I have never seen an Indian 
dance.” 

“ Why, so far as I may guess from those which 
I have observed,” the general answered her, “ ’twill 
be a war-dance. They will make a ring, in the 
middle of which four, or perchance it may be six, 
of the warriors will sit down, having little drums 
made of kettles covered over with tanned deerskin. 
They will beat upon these with short sticks or with 
the doubled fist, and some have great skill to strike 
upon them with the fingers only, as in playing the 
harpsichord. Around them gather the dancers, 
adorned with trinkets and skins, and with the tails 
of beasts hung about their waists. They will be 
painted much more marvellously than they were 
to-day, their hair beautifully stuck with quills and 
feathers. Nay, ’tis not merely in their hair. You 
have seen war-bonnets, have you not, my child ? ” 

“ I have not only seen them,” Diana answered, 
“but I have had one upon my head, and the last 
feathers of it touched the floor as I stood.” 

“ Well, then, such war-bonnets as that they will 
wear, and carry rattles, and a contrivance made 
of eagle’s feathers, which looks not unlike the 
caduceus of Mercury. They will shake these feathers 



RETURN 


39 1 

story whereby was told the history of how the 
enemy was discovered, attacked, vanquished. 

When this point in the tale had been reached, 
Alata, not heretofore visible, stepped forth from 
among her women. Nobly-moulded, long-limbed, 
and deep-chested, this woman who held the chief- 
tainship as much by personal force and the ability 
to command as by hereditary right, had the stature 
of a man, the port of a king. Her well-shaped head 
indicated fine reasoning powers. If the hawk-like 
profile, the piercing eye, and proud carriage lacked 
something of feminine suavity, they no doubt 
inferred that which was necessary to make her a 
chieftainess and an idol among her people. 

The finding of an occasional female ruler among 
the Indians of North America is less surprising 
when their method of government is considered. 
These Southern tribes, at least, had always their 
war-chief, and their peace-chief, or Mico. This 
latter might not unreasonably be a woman, a queen, 
taking into consideration their tendency to hold 
the office as hereditary, and the possible failure of 
male heirs. Alata had been accepted by her father 
and his tribe in default of a male inheritor; but 
to the prudence, foresight and administrative ability 
of an excellent queen, she added the valour which 
had more than once, in the absence of her war- 
chief, offered competent defence, or led her fighting 
men to victory. 

The effect of her study of Diana's dress was 
apparent in the queen's attire. There was no war 
paint upon her face; her hair had been loosened 
from the Indian woman’s inevitable braids, and 
in memory of its former confinement the great black 



RETURN 


393 

He came forth yelling, the war-drink drunken, and the war- 
dance danced. 

His men were as the leaves of the oak, and as the sands of 
the sea were his braves. 

As the sands of the sea were they for number, and as the 
panther’s breed for fierceness. 

I sat close in my town. I made my braves to lie down behind 
the barriers of my town. 

Like the stillness of a dead man was the stillness of our 
dwellings. 

Like the stillness of him from whom life has gone was the 
stillness of our lodges. 

Wild Eagle said to his warriors, ‘ This is a people silent 
from fear, and who cannot rise to stand upon their feet 
through trembling.’ 

I restrained my brave men with a word. My young men 
impatient, I held back as in a leash. 

Then, when they were run boasting in upon us, when a hand 
outstretched might well-nigh have touched them, 

We sped our arrows in a rain upon them; we pierced them 
with a sudden rain of arrows. 

Safe behind our barriers we smote them; covered by our 
barriers we laid them low. 

I, even I a woman, have vanquished the strong men of the 
Six Nations. 

Lo ! there is mourning in the land of the Oneidas. 

There is mourning among the women of the Tuscaroras. 

Hark to the widows howling on the mountains to the 
northward. 

For those who came against us in their strength are not 
returned. 

Their scalps hang as a girdle at the waist of Queen Alata. 

For them the fosky shall be brewed in vain; for them the 
council fire shall blaze in vain. 

For them the women shall wait in vain; their scalps hang 
at the belt of Queen Alata. 

For them the women shall wait in vain, lingering at the 
lodge-door, peering into the darkness — 

Their scalps hang at the girdle of Alata. 

I have said.” 

All through the tempest of Alata’s eloquence — 
for the chant was in fact a flight of impassioned 
oratory — Diana sat bent forward, gripping the 



return 


395 

up a sleeve, “ there are two parts in this. Here 
— and here — it is sewed.” 

Alata’s slender brown fingers interrogated the 
seams, while both glances and touch flattered the 
lace, and she looked wistfully at Toonahowi. 

“ There is no word in our language,” Toonahowi 
translated, “ for what she wishes to ask. I think 
she desires to know whether this,” pointing to the 
lace, “ is cloth, and how one may come by it.” 

Diana’s head was covered, to keep the sea breeze 
from disarranging her coiffure, with a great square 
of English blonde, hand-wrought about the edge 
in a pattern near a foot deep. This she took off, 
and put it with her own hands upon the queen’s 
head. “ Tell her,” she said to Toonahowi, “ that 
I love all friends of General Oglethorpe’s. Tell her 
that I think she is a very brave woman, and most 
generous to lead her warriors to battle for us, her 
white brothers and sisters ; say, too, that I think her 
most beautiful, and most royal, and that I would be 
glad if I had something of more value to give her 
than this bit of lace.” 

In a translation to the queen she noticed that the 
word “ lace,” having no equivalent in the Creek 
language, was repeated unchanged, with an inde- 
scribable soft, lisping, rolling sound, which made 
one realise, what the first missionaries found true, 
that these beautiful Indian words can only be repro- 
duced by the signs of the Greek alphabet. 

The Indian queen put up her hands to loosen 
from her neck a strange circlet of beaten copper, 
evidently of aboriginal workmanship, and come 
down from the Northern tribes who hammered arm- 
lets, diadems and necklets from the almost pure 



Diana smilingly asked if she had sons of her 
own. Toonahowi did not translate the question, 
but answered that Alata was not married, and added 
in a lower tone that her tribe was impatient that she 
should be, the Indians desiring the chieftainship to 
go by inheritance, as it had come thus to her from 
her father. 

“ And what does the white lady whom you call 
‘ Fair Moon ’ ” — it was thus Toonahowi had trans- 
lated Diana’s Christian name — “ what does she 
here?” questioned Alata, above Return’s flaxen 
head. 

“Tell her,” responded Diana with that confidence 
she would not permit herself to lose, “ that I have 
come to be with my husband, who is a soldier.” 

But Toonahowi, for some reason of his own, 
translated the words, “ She seeks her husband, who 
was a warrior — a chief under General Oglethorpe 
— and is lost. I pray you, my sister, wish her suc- 
cess in this search.” 

Alata gave the child into Toonahowi’s arms, 
looked aside to where some of her men were grouped, 
“ Success,” she said, “ goes where the Great Spirit 
wills it. Who am I, to portion out success to the 
mighty white people under whose foot we lie ? ” 

The speech concluded with a bitterness which 
Toonahowi did not permit to reach Diana in his 
translation, and they went back to the house, Return 
asleep on the tall young Indian chief’s broad breast, 
Diana and the general walking together and talking 
of Alata, whom she would see no more, since the 
queen’s party departed before daybreak on the 
following morning. 



RETURN 


399 

wounded, hoping to be of value to him in nursing 
or caring for them. The outcome of the matter was, 
that when the little fleet, consisting of the general’s 
cutter and a couple of guard-boats, started out from 
St. Simons, Lit was with them. 

It has been said since, and was no doubt freely- 
said then, that James Oglethorpe did a foolhardy 
thing when he pushed through a fleet of fourteen 
hostile sail, as he was presently obliged to do, with 
a cutter and two guard-boats. It has been pointed 
out (by sober-minded people sitting at home in 
safety) that, had his boat been disabled or himself 
wounded, the colony of Georgia (and through it 
the English in America) would have lain at the 
mercy of the Spaniard — who had no mercy. That 
the expedition appeared to the general necessary; 
that he performed it in safety, by running to the 
leeward of the Spanish fleet, where the smoke of 
their own guns prevented their taking accurate aim ; 
that he relieved the garrison at St. Andrews, by re- 
moving it with its stores and artillery to reinforce 
Fort William, and made his way — without the 
loss of a man, without so much as a wound — back 
to St. Simons, must be his excuse. 

Lit was on Cumberland more than a week. She 
found there those who told her that her father was 
gone inland for supplies, and who thought with her 
that, as the coast was clear at the moment, but liable 
to be alive with Spanish any day, it was not a safe 
place for his return, and that he should be warned 
of the present state of affairs. 

At the end of that time, Mistress Golightly was 
brought to the plantation by one of Dad’s Creeks. 
Lit took the mare, was set across to the mainland, 



Gone to the English,” came the grudgm 0 * 
answer, “ and taken the boy with him.” 

Where are all the hogs, the sheep, the cows? 
Why was the stockade empty, when I came yes- 
terday, and the house like a place of burial rather 
than the home of the living ? ” 

“Your father has taken all — all — to give to 
the English. . As for the house — it was not empty 
I was in it — in the loft — but you did not call 
me, and I came not forth.” 

Lit looked in the Indian woman’s eyes, and knew 
she lied — what profit to question her further ? The 
girl rose and busied herself getting a bit of corn 
bread and some dried meat, while Weeping Moon, 
who had followed to the kitchen, watched her move- 
ments with baleful eyes. 

Finally Lit returned to the only source of infor- 
mation open to her. “ How long is it since my 
father departed ? ” she asked the old squaw. 

After a lengthened silence, Weeping Moon replied 
in a surly tone, “How can I say?' He left from 
the pastures, not from the house.” 

“ Which trail did he take ? ” Lit pursued. 

“ L)o you think I am a sorcerer? ” the squaw flung 
back fiercely, “ that I can see through a mountain? 
How do I know what trails he takes ? ” 

“ Who is here ? ” was Lit’s next inquiry. “ Are 
Chutabeeche or Soota-Milla on the plantation?” 

“ They are gone over to the Spanish,” Weeping 
Moon answered her. “ Everybody is gone over to 
the Spanish but your fool of a father; and he has 
not sense enough to know which way his death lies, 
but will go to this man Oglethorpe on the island, 
who is not able to do anything for him. He must 






return 


403 

Both slim arms went up with a joyous whoop, and 
the little lad dug heel into the pony’s sides, and came 
loping forward. It was Salequah. Lit opened her 
arms as the bay swept in against Mistress Golightly, 
and boy and girl sat side by side on their horses, 
clasped in a long embrace. 

“ God bless my little man ! ” murmured Lit in 
musical Creek, laying the child’s head with its rich 
black hair back on her shoulder, leaning her cheek 
to the dark one of her brother, “ where is he going ? 
And where is his daddy gone? Lit wants to know.” 

The boy drew himself out of her embrace, and 
looked at her very seriously. “ O, Lit ! ” he said, 
“I know father doesn’t wish you to be told; but 
I did not promise him I would not tell you. He has 
gone to the Cowpens; and I heard Weeping Moon 
tell him that she would say to every one who came 
that he had gone north with cattle for the garrison 
at St. Simons.” 

“ Well, my little brave,” said the sister as she 
kissed him, “ farewell. Mind, I left the plantation- 
house just now going north — north , remember — 
and Weeping Moon is to believe that I went north.” 

“ And she sent me away that I might not see 
you ! ” the boy whispered. “ I am sure of that.” 

“ Well, then,” returned Lit laughing, “ mind that 
you didn’t see me.” 

“ I shall not tell of it,” the child declared, 
staunchly. Then the two parted, and, with a mind 
full of misgivings, Lit rode eastward along the 
river. 

Five miles from the plantation, Mistress Golightly 
began to go lame. Lit finally dismounted and exam- 
ined the mare’s’ foot; it was hot and swollen. The 



RETURN 


405 

Once in the hut, the silent-footed Anona going to 
and fro preparing the midday meal, and keeping the 
hordes of mute brown children away from their 
guest, the drowsiness of the hot noon overcame Lit. 
She had been almost sleepless on Cumberland; she 
had been torn with anxiety during her ride down to 
the plantation. Now a sudden numbing sensation, 
a feeling that matters were out of her hands, seemed 
to have taken possession of her, and she lay in her 
hostess’s rude hammock and slept till called to 
dinner ; and after that once more till Essoboa waked 
her, saying that he had used such embrocations and 
rude surgery as were possible in that short time, 
and believed the mare could travel as far as the 
Cowpens, if not pushed to great speed. 

It went to Lit’s heart to ride the limping creature 
at all. Yet life and death — aye, and a black and 
bitter shame worse than death itself to her — might 
hang upon the service of the white Mistress’s ailing 
feet. “ Poor girl,” she said, leaning down and 
patting the satiny neck softly, “ ’tis little you know 
about the things that make my heart ache — and 
well ’tis for you, Mistress. I wish sometimes that 
I were a simple beast of the field. I’m little more 
— but just enough to teach me suffering. O Lord ! 
Lord! if Dad is doing what I think he is, it’s 
certain he will be drunk, or crazed with drink; and 
what shall I do with him, how cope with him, God 
knows.” 

The empty corral at home had shown her that 
old Dad was, as usual, riding the big black horse. 
Aware that the Mistress was almost certain to 
neigh a greeting to her son if she came within 
hailing distance, Lit dismounted a quarter of a 





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4°7 

breeches pocket can very handily sink your armada, 
or run it into a trap and leave it at the mercy of 
your foes.” 

The Spanish gentleman was silent. It was Junius 
who spoke, with that crisp enunciation which was so 
unlike the soft, blurring negro utterance. “ Surely, 
your Excellency, we know — the commander and 
myself — what is needed, and we come to where the 
thing may be had, and we offer what we think will 
buy the thing.” 

“ No, by the Lord! ” growled Buckaloo. “ You 
offer money to a man who has no need of it; and 
you hem and haw over a title — ” 

“ To a man who has no need of it? ” interrupted 
the Spaniard, smoothly. “ Your Excellency has a 
Scotch title of your own — is it not so ? And in any 
case, a man so distinguished must scorn such fond 
toys as titles.” 

“ Scorn them ? ” echoed Dad irritably, “ that I 
do. But I choose to have the toy — for my son.” 

“ Your son,” interrupted Junius, in pretended 
surprise, “ is the great-grandchild of a king ! Surely 
this title of which you speak would bring no pride 
to him.” 

“ Aye, but I choose to give him a Spanish title,” 
Dad chafed. “ The Scotch name, he is like not 
to bear. Enough of this haggling and chaffering. 
Do you want a pilot — or failing him, the chart — - 
or do you not? Will you pay my price, or will 
you not ? Out with it, and begone with you ! ” 

The men once more exchanged swift, stealthy 
glances. “ Of a certainty,” spoke the Spaniard, 
with some enthusiasm, “ when we know you to be 
for us — when we find you to be of us — nothing 






RETURN 


409 

when a sudden hand descended upon her shoulder 
like the stroke of a bludgeon. She was clutched and 
dragged toward the stockade gate by Chunkey, who 
yelled at every step, “A spy! A spy! Ho, Junius, 
a spy ! ” 

Lit was larger and stronger than her wiry little 
captor, and had she not been willing to go in, there 
would have been some difficulty in making her do 
so. As it was, the two entered the stockade together, 
Chunkey vociferating that the girl had been spying 
and listening. The Spaniard stood back with glow- 
ing eyes that talked death. Junius sprang forward 
to help the black woman. Dad, turning upon the 
three, flushed darkly, whether more with rage or 
shame, it is difficult to say. 

“Take your hands off her!” he roared. “ ’Tis 
my child, my daughter, I tell you ! ” The Spaniard 
still said nothing; and now Junius stood back 
beside him. “ ’Tis a woman,” he said, “ with your 
life and mine in her hands, old man. Spying is 
hanging work, if you please ; and a squaw more or 
less, what is it? ” 

Old Dad got unsteadily to his feet. “ Are you 
talking to me,” he inquired, with portentous slow- 
ness, “ of taking the life of my daughter? ” 

“ It is what you will have to do,” Junius retorted, 
“ or,” as the big man came nearer, “ shut her up 
where she’ll do no harm.” 

“ Yea, shut her up I will,” Dad returned. “ Lit, 
come here. Sit thou beside me.” Then, his anger 
flowing back in a tide, “ Shut her up, will I, you 
black fiend? Another such speech as that, and I 
will shut you up where only the devil and his 
damned may hear you when you cry out ! ” 




TJ/HY, MAN ; HE COOED , FINGERING 
"r THE BIG DIRK.” 



RETURN 


411 

clean of murder — or worse. And you would think 
to fear Alexander Buccleugh with the like of that? 
Why, man/’ he cooed, fingering the big dirk thrust 
into his belt, “ there have been times when ’twas 
Alexander Buccleugh’s trade to slaughter men, any 
one of whom could have met your beggarly crew 
unarmed, and silenced them. The whip, man, the 
whip is the thing we use on slaves. They fear their 
masters, and no other weapon is needed.” 

Junius’s nostril flickered, and his eye, with the 
tawny white ball, glared upon Dad. But when he 
would have spoken, the Spaniard restrained him, 
and answered instead: 

“ Your Excellency is pleased to be merry. Well, 
well, when we are all grandees of Spain together, 
our colonel of grenadiers here may return the jest.” 

“ But mind, the squaw here has your life in her 
hands, and I’d never trust a woman,” said Junius, 
as they passed out. 



RETURN 


4i3 

have said none of those things to you. I’m hungry ; 
I’m worn out; and Mistress Golightly,” — a sob 
caught in the girl’s throat, — “ she’s lamed, an’ for 
life, as I believe, an’ ’twas I did it to her, with 
travelling down here. Why, in the name of God! 
Dad, what would I want to harm you for? Will 
you go and get the mare? I tied her over by the 
far spring.” 

The old man looked at her miserably a minute; 
then, without a word of denial or reproach, went. 
It was characteristic of the reckless courage of both 
that neither he nor Lit feared for an instant, she 
to be left alone, nor he to leave her, with the pos- 
sibility of Junius’s band returning. 

When Dad came back from seeing to the comfort 
of the mare, instead of resuming the denunciations 
which he had originally begun as a sort of defence 
against her unspoken reproaches, he sat heaVily 
down, and hid his face in his hands. 

Lit looked at him. She had examined the supply 
of liquor, and she knew that her one hope was to 
induce him to drink enough that she might get away 
— get back to St. Simons and warn the garrison. 
This planned attack of the Spaniard she knew they 
were apprehending. But of the details they could 
know nothing, and this treachery within their camp 
must surely work their utter destruction unless they 
could be warned in time. 

“ Oh, dear Heaven ! ” she groaned within her- 
self, “ why should my flesh creep at doing this 
thing? He will often be drunk himself. ’Tis to save 
more than his life; for I had far liefer see him dead 
than see him lead the cruel Spaniard against our 
people. And yet — and yet — all my life long I 



RETURN 


415 

Once, when Dad drowsed beside the emptied mug, 
the girl crept back and, with tears running down 
her face and, “ O God, forgive me! ” silently filled 
the cup which, later... he roused and drank. This 
act was the bitterest v, g life had ever done to Lit 
Buccleugh, o asked o ^er. 

Finally, after some groaning and swearing, some 
getting up and moving restlessly about, the old man 
threw himself down upon the pile of saddles and 
equipments, and slumbered fitfully. Lit rose from 
her couch, creeping by inches, slowly, stealthily past 
him. She was not in much terror, for he kept no 
jailer’s eye upon her, seeing that she had no way 
to leave the Cowpens save upon horseback, and he 
lay stretched on the pile of saddles, bridles,, and 
equipments; no animal to ride save poor, injured 
Mistress Golightly, or the great black horse, whom 
none but himself and Salequah had ever backed. 

This same horse was the objective point of Lit’s 
present errand. Her father’s head was on the 
skirts of her saddle, his left arm twisted in her 
bridle-leathers. Her only hope was to find the black 
horse in the pen; catch him, if such a thing .were 
possible ; mount him, and ride him with, the simple 
Indian bridle, a rope around the lower jaw. 

Once outside the room, she breathed more freely, 
and ran toward the pen. The black horse knew 
her at once; she had often fed him, and he came 
in the dark, nosing against her dress and begging 
for salt or some dainty. “ Aye, my man,” she said, 
reaching up to find if by chance he had a halter on, 
“ but ’twill be another story when I try mounting 
of ye.” 

Finding no rope, she bent down and, laboriously, 










RETURN 


417 

whole body, ran back to the length of the rope, 
reared, and came on with battling forefeet. She 
knew that her life hung on the toss of a penny in 
this matter; and yet, so terrific were the risks be- 
fore it and behind, that to mount this rebellious 
creature seemed to her but a little matter. 

She had meant to have leaped upon him as he 
got up, but he had defeated her purpose by his 
quickness. There was nothing for it but to try 
again ; and now, as he ran furiously back the scarf’s 
length and, feeling it pinch his lip on the jerk, came 
charging at her again, she evaded the direct onset, 
gave his head a sidewise wrench, once more seized 
first mane, then nostrils, and, as before, by throwing 
her arm over his neck, her weight on his head, her 
hand twisting his tender nostrils, threw him — or 
helped him to throw himself. And when he rose 
this time, with a leap and a snort, she was clinging 
to his back, her knees gripping his sides, one hand 
twisted in his mane, one straining on her scarf 
Indian bridle. 

With this his frenzy culminated. He tore around 
the small enclosure like a thing possessed. Each 
time they passed the gate, she strove to strike away 
its prop; each time missed it and barely held her 
place upon his back. Finally, having run until he 
despaired of dislodging her by mere running, he 
came up to the gate in a thundering gallop, looked 
contemptuously at it, rose to it like a bird, and they 
were over it and off up the homeward trail like a 
rock from a catapult. 

Girl and horse burst out into the open night-world 
and, though nothing could have been further from 
the black’s calculations, had started upon the des- 



RETURN 419 

who might be daughter to her — and Junius, a 
slippery, dancing black fiend, indeed ; and Dad — 
oh ! ” she shivered, “ and his familiar deil of drink 
— drink that I gave him ; then this black demon 
of his, that is just as much in mind to kill me as 
Junius was, and more like to do it. Now comes 
this cruel, black witch of a storm, and the black 
water to swim. Shall we win through, my girl ? ” 
And she turned to glance back where the Mistress’s 
white shape flickered amid the blackness around 
her. The mare had again and again made up lost 
distance, and caught them up, in those intervals 
when the black stallion turned furious and he and 
Lit had to fight it out. In a long blaze of lightning, 
Lit now saw the mare turning off on a trail toward 
the coast and Cumberland; while the black horse, 
as fearless as his wild sire, took Pamuskey water 
breast-high and began swimming from the first 
stroke. 

“ Oh, you’re off for home and safety, are you, 
Polly? ” the girl called a little ruefully to the white 
mare. “ Well, I reckon I must go on. I beant 
quite come to the end of all things. I can t be 
killed this night, for I’ve got that preacher the old 
man gave me to wed yet,” and she laughed to her- 
self, on the crest of one of the big horse’s upheavals, 
all alone in the black night. She slid from his 
back and swam beside him, one hand clutching a 
streamer of his mane. 

The first wild burst of speed lasted probably half 
an hour. It was all too much like violent madness 
for Lit to form any judgment. But after the Pa- 
muskey, the frantic plunges, as of a wounded buck, 
settled into a long-reaching, dead run. This gave 



RETURN 


421 

Set across Satillo water, into whose ferry he had 
been dragged by the jaw, the black horse began to 
have a wholesome respect for his rider. When she 
had forded a stream or two more, showing no fear 
of himself or the water, and was come to the ferry 
at the Little Satillo, he was sufficiently complaisant 
— though she dared not yet dismount — to permit 
himself to be guided up to the ferryman’s door, 
where she beat upon the boards and called the man 
forth. 

He was a low-headed, black-faced, surly fellow, 
who unbent for a moment to admire her horse. It 
needed all her courage to keep Lit’s voice steady, 
as she cautioned him to look out for the mounted 
Creeks who were of her party, but who, being less 
well-horsed, had dropped somewhat behind her. 
They would certainly be up within half an hour, 
she assured him, and must be set across without 
delay, since all three were bearing dispatches from 
different points to Oglethorpe at St. Simons. She 
drew a freer breath, as Thunderbolt sprang from 
the boat up the northward bank. 

Once, as though conjured up by the thunder of 
the big horse’s hoofs, a man sprang out into the 
trail, leaped at the animal’s head with a shout, and 
would have halted them. Lit had no choice in the 
matter; Thunderbolt did the choosing. He slack- 
ened not one whit in his stride, and she listened to 
hear the crunching of bones as the man was ridden 
over. But he slipped lithely aside like a shadow. 

“ An Indian,” Lit reflected. “ No white man 
could have been so quick.” 

She crouched close to the horse’s mane, looking 
momently for an arrow or a musket-ball to follow 



RETURN 


4 2 3 

every muscle wrenched and pounded and strained, 
maddened with sheer weariness, in deep distress of 
mind, she seemed to herself only a creature sent out 
with motion in it. There was no thought, no sen- 
sation, no hope, even for miles and miles, as she 
went on and on. 

Her overfraught heart gave way and she wept 
aloud, distractedly, to the distraught night; then 
started to hear her own loud sobs, and wiped the 
streaming tears with her sleeve, or upon the fan- 
tastically dancing masses of her dark hair. This 
hair which had been drenched in the Pamuskey, 
dried — even her soaked clothing dried, what with 
the warm wind whooping past them, and her fevered 
body within. 

The horse’s mad plunges had loosened the hair 
from its braids, and now some sudden up-swelling 
of wind would take it like a great cloud above her 
head, drop it, and dash and wind it around her face 
like a veil, till she fought it away that she might see 
as much as could be seen in the first pale strugglings 
of dawn. 

The magnificent pace of the great black was 
lessened to pitiful short bounds, like those of a 
spent, wounded hart. He gathered his trembling 
legs and launched himself forward for each leap as 
though it might be his last. 

Suddenly, just as a quivering spear of light 
came up out of the sea, which Lit could discern in 
glimpses through the thicket to her rig-ht, Turtle 
River opened up dim, gray, and mysterious before 
her. So near the coast, this stream is an estuary, 
the further bank faintly conjectured from the near 
one. 



RETURN 


425 

There was room in the broad periagua for all; 
the rowers gave way with a will. But Turtle River 
is wide; half-way across, the great beast gave a 
groan, came to his knees, and died with his head 
against Bit’s dress, she sobbing over him as though 
he were a friend. 

“ Poor, bonny laddie — an’ ’twas not his war 
— what cared he for Spaniard, or English — but 
they wouldna’ let him live his bonny life — he must 
e’en be killed — Lit, Lit must kill him. Oh, oh, 
oh!” 

As they neared the other shore the sound of 
cannon began to come across the water, and Lit’s 
impatience increased. “ The Spanish ha’ been stand- 
ing on and off the bar for a week,” the old Scotch- 
man told her ; “ and now, like enough, they have 
taken the flood and gone over. Best stay with us, 
since the horse is dead. We will push up where 
we can see them without ourselves being seen, and 
if so be there comes any chance to get you — and 
your news — to the general, we will surely do it.” 

And so it came about that Lit Buckaloo saw the 
battle of St. Simons from the water side. She 
saw the great proud fleet of thirty-two sail, two 
large snows leading, dash in upon Oglethorpe’s 
handful of cutters and guard-boats, engage them, 
and sink one. The periagua-full wept, prayed, swore, 
according to the sex and religious convictions of its 
various occupants. 

Finally, after a four hours’ fight, the Spanish 
ships swept past them all, and up the Altamaha with 
a stiff, stern breeze chasing. 

The old Scotchman looked doggedly after, deter- 
mined to find some advantage in the defeat. 



CHAPTER X. 


THE BATTLE OF BLOODY MARSH 

“They closed full fast on every side, 

No slackness there mote be; 

And evir more the rede blude ran 
Under the greenwood tree.” 

L IT finally reached Oglethorpe’s presence, 
spent, staggering, almost blind with exhaus- 
tion and misery. Coming close to him, she 
poured out, in her direct way, her story of the 
Spanish spy, and the plot to blow up the magazine. 
At the end, “ I pray you,” she gasped, “ let me go 
on to warn those at Frederica! ” 

“ My dear child,” the general remonstrated, “ I 
will not send so over-worn a messenger as your- 
self. The swiftest among my Indian runners is 
already despatched. Aldonado, if he returns, will 
be clapt in irons at once, and the magazine narrowly 
watched lest there be others in the plot. Do you 
lie down now, and strive to get some repose. We 
have held a council of war, and decided to dismantle 
this fort as near as may be, spike the guns, burst 
the cohorns and make what speed is possible to 
Frederica.” 

A kindly old Scotchwoman, herself nurse and 
laundress at the garrison, came up and put an arm 

427 







RETURN 


429 

girl, that we shall find a fort standing there awaiting 
us.” 

She discovered with the first faint glimmer of 
dawn that she was mounted on the general’s charger, 
while he walked beside her. Arriving at the fort, 
they found Diana and the baby, with some of the 
officers’ wives and children, gathered in the building 
used for a court of justice. The fort being well-nigh 
impregnable from the water side, and the walled 
town lying between it and a land assault, this was 
deemed the safest place. Day was dawning when 
the forces from St. Simons found themselves within 
the gates of Frederica. 

Oglethorpe considered that his only chance was 
to act now (as he little liked to act) upon the 
defensive. He set the main body of his forces to 
work upon the fortifications, strengthening them 
in every possible detail. Nearly a hundred scouts 
circled about the invading troops, striking a blow 
or taking a prisoner where they could, and bringing 
in continual news of the enemy’s movements. These 
informed the general that, on the evening of the 
sixth, the Spanish had landed at Gascoigne’s 
Bluff, where they had fortified themselves and en- 
camped upon shore. At this point, they were four 
miles below Frederica by water, but cut off from it 
by morasses and impenetrable woods in such a way 
that, to reach it, they would have to go down the 
coast toward St. Simons, there turn, and come up 
the length of the island, following indeed the exact 
route which Oglethorpe’s forces had taken. Arriv- 
ing before the town, they would be obliged to 
approach it by a narrow trail cut through dense 
oak woods, and upon which not more than two could 




RETURN 


43i 

forth. He reached the scene of battle with two 
or three of Toonahowi’s Creeks, and a Highland 
man who had outrun the others. 

The fighting was hand to hand, the Spanish 
being here in a small opening. The general took 
two prisoners with his own hands. Toonahowi, 
being shot in the right arm by a Spanish captain, 
drew his pistol with his left hand and shot his assail- 
ant through the heart. The general pursued the 
fugitives more than a mile, halted on an advanta- 
geous piece of ground, and, being encumbered with 
a number of prisoners whom he wished to take back 
to the fort, posted the men of his own regiment and 
the Highlanders in a dense wood, ambushing the 
road by which the main body of the Spanish must 
pass to reach the fort, and himself returned with all 
speed to Frederica to make such preparation as was 
possible to repel the invaders. 

Highlander and Georgian, Creek and Cherokee, 
they lay close in the warm greenness of the palmetto 
thickets, their scouts intently listening for the ad- 
vance of the enemy. But it needed not the trained 
ear of the scout to detect the approach of that 
column. Three Spanish captains, with a hundred 
grenadiers, two hundred foot-soldiers, besides their 
negro and Indian followers, came up the narrow 
green defile through the woods with bands playing, 
banners flying, and fresh, gay uniforms, danced 
upon by the chequering dapples of sunlight through 
the live-oaks. 

Reaching the savannah, whose border walls of 
green were the ramparts behind which Oglethorpe’s 
forces lay, the Spanish deployed, stacked arms, and 
began — what military manoeuvre, does the reader 



RETURN 


433 

the hurrahs of the Rangers ringing after them. 
Some ran into the marshes, where they mired 
and were taken prisoners, if so fortunate as to be at- 
tacked by white men, or slain and scalped if they 
fell into the hands of the Cherokees. 

That green lane down which they ran was a 
gauntlet, along which they were harried with tumult, 
hacked and mutilated with sword and fire. Some 
turned aside into the thickets and were lost, only to 
be found later and taken prisoners. But a pitiful 
remnant escaped to the Spanish camp. The com- 
manding officer was mortally wounded. They had 
lost in officers and men, killed or taken prisoners, 
nearly two hundred. 

During the confusion of the skirmish, word went 
to Oglethorpe at Frederica that his men were being 
defeated and driven back by the Spanish. He 
hastened with two platoons to reinforce them, and 
coming upon the ground of victory when it was 
red with the blood of the vanquished, he promoted 
the young officers who had gained it, there on the 
very field of their valour. 

But not even with this signal victory could so 
small a force remain secure in the presence of so 
overwhelming an enemy. The same troops which 
had gained this victory pursued the flying remnant 
of the invaders to a causeway over the marsh, within 
a mile of the Spanish camps. They found that the 
enemy had entrenched themselves in the dismantled 
fort of St. Simons, and having no artillery with 
which to attack a fortified position, the general 
returned to Frederica. 

His men were jubilant. Victory beyond belief had 
crowned their arms; but in the commander’s heart 





RETURN 


435 

did put such credit in it as made of their defeat a 
panic rout. Reaching Fort William, which they 
knew to have a very small garrison, they attacked 
it. But heroic Alexander Stuart, having received 
Oglethorpe’s message to hold out desperately, re- 
pulsed them — with sixty men in his garrison ! 

Oglethorpe had the pleasure of relieving Stuart, 
beating off the Spanish, and following down after 
them; of seeing the whole great fleet fly before his 
pitiful handful of guard-boats, and of pursuing them 
even to the St. John’s and within sight of Augustine ! 

Whitefield rose up in his church, and was moved 
to one of his marvellous flights of eloquence over 
this expedition. “ Our deliverance from the hands 
of the Spaniard,” he said, “ is such as could only be 
parallelled in the Old Testament. They had cast 
lots and determined to give no quarter. They were 
for the Carolinas, and were of the mind to put in 
and take Georgia on their way. But, behold, ‘ the 
race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.’ 
Providence ruleth all things. They are wonderfully 
repelled, and in a marvellous manner are they sent 
away. * A little band chased a thousand ; and a 
small one overcome a large people.’ ” 



RETURN 


437 

brother. Fascinated and revolted, Lit gazed upon the 
head borne aloft. It was a black face, with short 
crisp hair above its temples, the eyes half-closed, as 
though in insolent derision, the lips writhed back 
from the white teeth in a perpetual sneer. And 
in it Lit recognised the Spanish colonel of grena- 
diers, the emissary who had been most eager for 
her life, Sir Paris’s late attendant and gentleman 
of the bedchamber, Belinda’s bearer, the Pluto that- 
had carried that dusky Proserpine, Chunkey, from 
the ken of her owners — Junius. 

And by that same token, who was this dwarfed 
man, or ancient-looking boy, who came limping in 
the rear, with bound hands and sullen eyes down- 
cast? Who but Chunkey’s self? 

Lit hurried forward, her glance flinching from 
that ghastly head whose drooping eyelids gave it 
the grotesque appearance of looking down with 
scorn upon the crowd beneath, spoke to Chunkey’s 
captor, and laid a hand upon the woman’s shoulder. 

When they last met, Chunkey had been at Lit’s 
throat like a snarling cur. Now, according to the 
ways of the world, was the time for vengeance, for 
reprisal. No such thought was in Lit’s mind. She 
had immediately informed Chunkey’s captor that he 
had taken a woman, not a man ; and when the Chero- 
kee disgustedly relinquished his prisoner, Lit said 
to her : “ There is your mistress, Chunkey, do 

you want to go to her ? ” 

Chunkey raised her fierce, sullen eyes to her ques- 
tioner’s face, then softened a little as she looked 
where Diana walked, the fair-haired child led in 
her hand. 

“ Iss, I go to her. I carry little boy,” she said. 



RETURN 


439 

Her faithful heart was torn with anxiety as to 
how that father, always beloved, and now, as it 
almost seemed, doubly near in his degradation and 
falling away from the path of honour, might be 
faring. 

General Oglethorpe, knowing nothing of Dad’s 
wavering, (for Lit’s knowledge of her father’s con- 
templated defection had been a secret locked in 
her own breast,) did not oppose the expedition. 

The Spaniards were routed and flung back, their 
Indians reduced, through sheer terror, to a sub- 
mission heretofore unknown, so that the waters and 
the country into which Diana’s party went were as 
safe and peaceful as the neighbourhood of Savannah 
itself. 

A great flat-bottomed periagua of the Company’s 
was going down to Cumberland Sound at the mouth 
of the St. Mary’s — perhaps further south — and 
would take the party. At the Cumberland place 
they could get both a boat of Buckaloo’s and Creek 
rowers. 

They left Frederica at dawn, went down the 
inland passage, arrived at Dad’s place, and were 
off up the St. Mary’s the next morning. It was 
twenty miles and more, as the river wound, and 
against a strong current. 

They rowed all morning, then landed for lunch 
and rest under a group of stately live-oaks, where 
Return ran about and played games with two of 
the Creek rowers who were young fellows and of 
that smiling friendly type more often seen among 
the Southern Indians than among the tribes further 
north. 

Lit put aside all the baby’s invitations and chal- 




RETURN 


441 

always if coolness were to be found, it would be 
in the shaded courtyard which overlooked the river. 

There they had brought the sick child, and laid 
him upon a couch near its outer edge. Motionless, 
by one of the corners of his bed, hiding herself from 
him in its draperies, Weeping Moon crouched; for 
he had said earlier in the day that she was a wicked 
woman, and he did not wish to see her; and old 
Dad had driven her from the room with hard words. 
Now, dishevelled, trembling from head to foot, the 
father stood between the two women and begged 
that they do something for his boy. 

Lit went forward without a word, kneeled down 
by the child and kissed him; and feeble as he was, 
the great liquid eyes glowed and lightened upon her 
in a perfect ecstasy of gladness. The parched lips 
smiled and whispered her name. 

She lifted his small hot hands and laid them about 
her neck. “ It is fever/’ she said, looking up at 
Dad, “ swamp fever.” 

“ Nay! ” cried Buckaloo with a groan, “ ’tis the 
judgment of God, lass. Fever, say you?” and he 
sat down upon the other side of the bed, gripping its 
edge in his hands, and watching the child’s face. 

Return had gone to sleep from the heat and 
weariness of travel. His mother went with him 
into one of the rooms and laid him down, bidding 
Chunkey take a branch and keep the flies and 
mosquitoes from him while he slept, then back to 
the dying boy in the courtyard. She brought a 
basin and cloths, and signed to Lit that she should 
bathe his brow, which, when she did, he seemed 
feebly glad, and his glance rested sweetly upon 
Diana, whose lovely face he knew. But after a 



return 


443 

outermost end of the rude pier. There he sat, his 
white face with its burning eyes lifted to the hurry- 
ing clouds, the little rigid figure spread across his 
knees. And they could see his hands, flung up 
toward heaven, and hear him crying aloud, talking 
and pleading, muttering and singing. 

Zubley, who had been attending to the practical 
matters of life as usual, and caring for little Return, 
now came to the women and asked, “ Should not 
something be done for the poor soul? Will he not 
leap into the water ? ” 

Lit was done weeping. “ Nay,” she answered, 
dry-eyed and quiet, “ leave him be. ’Tis Dad’s 
way. Wait; the frenzy will spend itself.” 

So they drew together in the courtyard, and 
watched till his head began to droop, and the cries 
came fainter. Then his daughter went down to 
him and took his hand and called his attention to 
the child on his knees, that he was really dead; 
and they came up to the house bearing the little 
son, and laid him down once more upon his bed. 

And here presently came trotting from the inner 
room to his mother, Return, who had wakened 
renewed, his face rosy, fresh, and smiling as a 
cherub’s face seen in clear water. 

“ Mistress,” old Buckaloo was saying, “ you have 
come to a very sad house. It is a house which hath 
lost its prop, for there will be no more sons to it.” 

“ I would,” said Diana, “ that I had come earlier, 
that I might have been useful to you, sir. I have 
some skill in these matters.” 

“ In the matter of a fever? ” said old Dad, gently. 
“ Why, yes, I think a fever may be dealt with. But 
this son of mine was taken from me because I was 



RETURN 


445 

“ Aye ? ” queried Dad reflectively, “ think you 
so? And yet you never knew the strain of holding 
in your arms a son so loved, but still belonging to 
that race which we white men despise. Now your 
son/’ and the desolate gaze of those great black eyes 
dwelt passingly upon the fair and dimpled example 
of what babyhood should be, “ he is most beautiful 
and white. And for my baby — my boy — my 
little lad — he — but truly, mistress, he also was 
a bonnie, brave, handsome child ! ” 

“ Oh, indeed, most beautiful ! ” Diana eagerly 
declared. 

“ O, aye — beautiful — and a high heart — and 
all, my bairn. Yet could he not be white. So I said 
he should have riches and title and honours. Oh, 
fool ! fool ! Did I think by these — with lying and 
dishonour and a traitor’s acts — and risk — Aye, 
a black villain I may be ; but I would ’a’ thought I 
would ’a’ had some sense to me, and not juist ha’ 
been a fool complete.” 

Later, when the squaws had taken the child’s body 
in charge, Dad sat in the courtyard and talked 
with his white guests. Lit came to Diana and told 
her that Weeping Moon had begged pitifully to be 
allowed to dress and handle the little body, saying 
humbly that now he would not care, he would not 
be angry now. “ I almost forgave her,” said the 
pale girl, with red, swollen eyes, “ and I could not 
refuse her. She is dressing him now.” 

Lit went to her father and, with her arm across 
his shoulders, asked some very gentle, guarded 
questions betraying that she thought Dad would still 
have much knowledge of the Spaniards and their 
plans. He was as simple and broken in his manner 



RETURN 


447 

further; closed his lips instead, dropped his head, 
and fell to brooding. 

But why Salequah should have been deemed a 
suitable possessor of Creek lands, and not his sister, 
their father did not explain. 



RETURN 


449 

Old Dad went with them as far as St. Simons, 
and there remained with the army. Their next stop 
was at the Darien, the Scotch settlement. Diana 
had come some miles out of her direct way to see 
one of the Highlanders who, it had been said, knew 
something of Robert’s fate. It was the barest 
shadow of a possibility, and so she held it, yet would 
not disregard it entirely. 

She had not known that here at Darien there was 
a camp made by certain of the Carolina forces who, 
coming down too late for action, had chosen to 
return leisurely overland. But so it was; and they 
were but fairly landed at the place when Lit, who 
had been for some moments questioning one of the 
rowers in Creek, turned to Diana and said, with 
some embarrassment. 

“ Mistress, the captain with these Carolina troops 
was down three years agone. He — he was in the 
attack upon Augustine, and I do think it likely he 
might have been at Moosa, though I know not that 
for sure. Will ye — will ye go over and speak with 
him ? ” 

Diana was on her feet in an instant. “ Surely,” 
she said. “ Why, Lit, you could never believe that 
I would hesitate to meet any one because he came 
from Charles Town, and may have — have — 
known me formerly, when the quest is such as mine 
is?” 

“ Aye,” faltered Lit, “ but ’tis — well, to be short 
about it, ’tis Captain Tillsford in command here. 
Shall we go or not? I will go alone, my dear; but 
likely he’ll tell me nothing, just for spite.” 

Diana’s face had crimsoned at the name; but she 
gathered up her courage and resolution. This, she 



RETURN 


45i 

“ Why, yes,” returned Tillsford with sudden bit- 
terness, “ I think I had. She was a person who 
served her betters (myself among them) as Archi- 
bald Cameron afterward used her; and I am very 
certain, madam, you cannot deny great bitterness 
toward that gentleman.” 

“ Sir,” Diana answered him, “ I am not here to 
make defence to you. Not to you am I answerable. 
And yet, I will say, that I have no bitterness toward 
Archibald Cameron, nor yourself, nor any man. 
And as for what you should feel toward me : I did 
you no harm. I have not served you as ill when 
I refused your hand — even when in my shallow 
folly I paraded that rejection — as you have done 
by that poor, pale woman you left behind you in 
Charles Town, and who was, when you married her, 
rosy, laughing Monis Fanshawe.” 

Tillsford shrugged and frowned. “ It appears,” 
he said, “ that if a woman hath not the fiend’s own 
temper to give her spirit, she must whine. I am to 
understand that Mistress Tillsford has been meeting 
of you in Savannah and relating her woes ? ” 

“ Nay,” returned Diana, “ when I heard she was 
in Savannah, I did go to see her at the inn. It 
was a sweet girl, and gay and happy as a child, 
when that you wedded her. And now she hangs her 
head like one shamed. She sits at home pale and 
pining, when those that were her mates are merry- 
making.” 

“ Why, for that,” Tillsford retorted, “ she must 
make her choice. Like yourself, she cannot remain, 
as a woman should, in her own place, but must be 
coming down to Savannah after me. If you will 
know, madam,” he burst out suddenly after a 



RETURN 


453 

your fiend’s temper and cruel, insolent nature — by 
your leave, madam, I speak plainly, as is neces- 
sary — ” 

“ As is necessary,” assented Diana. “ I perceive, 
sir, that it will indeed be necessary for me to hear 
these things from you, as a sort of toll, before you 
are willing to give me what I seek.” 

“ Well, then,” resumed Tillsford, unmoved, “ if 
he, having the heart of a man, left you, and would 
have none of you, nor hear from you, and now seeks 
to be quit of you, while you come traipsing after 
him who has had such a heart-scald of you, to beg 
pardon and favour because you have a child, and, 
lacking him, must live a shamed, forsaken, and 
deserted wife — if all these things be true, madam, 
and he desires to remain hid from you, I should 
do ill to tell you what I know of him.” 

The blood had left her face during this tirade, so 
that she stood for an instant after he was silent, 
white to the very lips, and trembling. But only for 
an instant. That brave heart of hers met its routed 
forces in full retreat, rallied, marshalled, and beat 
them fiercely back to the field of her cheeks. Troop 
after troop, reserve upon reserve, it flung them furi- 
ously there, till that field blazed with their sanguine 
banners. 

Tillsford lifted his eyes and barely glanced at 
the fine face glowing with generous indignation, the 
sparkling eyes, arched lips, and trembling nostrils. 
Then, with a covert smile, he dropped his gaze once 
more to his boot toe, and stood waiting for the out- 
burst. He had touched her at last. He was well 
acquainted with the Diana of old, the beautiful 
virago, and eager to hear her justify his ill report. 



RETURN 


455 

knew it now. Then she wept with me, and said that 
even my beauty had not held my husband with 
me, and,” the red rose once more, deeply and pain- 
fully, in Diana’s face, “ and cried, most pitifully, 
that her babe would be as fatherless as this my son, 
for that she believed you would never come back 
to her.” 

Tillsford turned with a start. “ I — ” he began, 
then halted in confusion. 

“ Have you been reading her letters ? Do you 
not know why she follows you, sir ? ” Diana in- 
quired with sudden sternness. “ No, do not tell 
me,” as his lips parted to speak. “ I have no right 
to know. I have tried with you and failed; I did 
it for my love’s sake; but I will humiliate Robert 
Marshall’s wife no further. You will give me no 
help. Come, my son, let us be going.” 

“ A moment, pray,” Tillsford stopped her as she 
came to the tent door. “I — After all, my infor- 
mation is not recent. It was before the disaster at 
Fort Moosa that I saw your husband last. I have 
had word, which seemed to me direct, that he was 
confined in the castle of Augustine. I believe that 
young Ulrich Zahn, who went home wounded to 
Ebenezer, will be able to tell you something. He 
knows, at least, that Lieutenant Marshall was living 
six days after Moosa fell ; and if I might, there is 
a man in Carolina who may know more, to whom 
I will apply.” 

Diana turned and slightly curtsied to him, the 
child in her arms, his fair, dimpled, blue-eyed face, 
with its ravel of golden hair about it — Robert Mar- 
shall’s face in dewy miniature — lying upon her 
shoulder. 



return 


457 

TillsforcTs tent, and he conveyed them to their home 
for the night, walking ahead carrying the child, 
Lit and Diana trailing somewhat tardily after. 

As they were about entering the little place, Diana, 
who came last, heard a quick step behind her, and 
a young fellow, Cecil Strangeways, now a lieutenant 
in one of Captain Tillsford’s companies, overtook 
and spoke to her. It had been long since she saw 
Cecil. She flushed at sight of him now. She felt 
that she had used this boy worse than another, 
because they were childish playmates, and when 
he, a year her junior, discovered a youthful passion 
for her, she had made it the sport and jest of all 
their circle. 

“ Diana !” he cried, “Mistress Marshall! Was 
— was Captain Tillsford respectful, as he should 
have been ? As I came up to the tent, I — it seemed 
to me I heard his voice raised in a tone — ” 

“ Why, Cecil, my dear boy ! ” cried Diana, put- 
ting out both her hands, “ I had no thought to find 
you here. And are you now become a soldier? 
’Tis my husband’s profession, and that which my 
son will follow, no doubt. Lit, dear, is the boy 
asleep? O, well, Cecil, at least you can look at 
him. And as he is no great conversationalist at this 
age, perchance merely looking will serve as well, for 
a bachelor like yourself.” 

“ But, Diana,” urged the lieutenant, as Lit carried 
the sleeping baby inside, “ I would know if there is 
aught I can do to serve you. They tell me you are 
seeking Lieutenant Marshall.” 

“You, to serve me!” echoed Diana, the quick 
tears in her eyes. “ Methinks you have a most for- 
giving nature, Cecil. Yet you were happy. God was 






return 


459 

hand of steel, when my heart was ground to powder 
by a heart so much harder than my own — ” 

“ Why, then it was, Diana, that my heart bled. 
I thought when you did cast me off, that I knew 
sorrow; but when I heard of your — of your — 
of that dastard Cameron’s deed, and I away on my 
ship and could not come to you, to bring you my 
sword, when I heard that, Diana, then I learned 
what a man may know of helpless anguish.” 

“ And so,” Diana said, deeply touched, and striv- 
ing to give to the talk a somewhat lighter tone, “ you 
are fain to go and insult your superior officer on 
my behalf. Know, then, that Captain Tillsford prof- 
fered me no more than my just deserts, in some 
ways; and in all ways our score is even. And 
indeed, Cecil, at the last he did show a man’s heart, 
and I — I much respect him.” 

“ Always generous,” said young Strangeways, 
smiling. Then, “ Mistress Marshall, did — did your 
husband ever mention the meeting of me in Charles 
Town two years ago? ” 

“ Why, no, Cecil,” she replied, the red tingeing 
her cheeks as she spoke. “ He was ordered south 
almost immediately, and I saw him but once after 
his return from Charles Town.” 

“ Was the hand yet healed?” he pursued; and 
Diana cried, with sudden intuition: 

“ You were his second in that duel ! Was it not 
so ? And it was fought because — ” 

“ Because a lying fellow had taken too much 
wine,” Strangeways interrupted, “ and your hus- 
band liked not the way in which he carried himself 
thereafter.” But now Diana was fully informed 
what tool it was that had wounded Robert’s hand. 



RETURN 4 6i 

way up from the coast, and, his wounds opening 
once more, he died a week before their arrival. 

The disappointment was severer than Diana could 
have been brought to confess. Indeed, it was for 
the moment paralysing. Hardly knowing which 
way to turn her eyes or her steps, half-consciously 
glad to pause here in this air of simplicity, this 
atmosphere of intense, inspired religious devotion, to 
rest and heal their hearts from the shocks of battle, 
the grief of cruel bereavement, and the blows of 
repeated disappointment, the little group tarried 
among these gentle folk. Zubley, who spoke their 
language, was soon enlisted in Ebenezer labours, 
interests, and undertakings, lending sage counsel 
and a ready arm. 

From here Diana made three several short jour- 
neys, to as many different places, to search for per- 
sons who were said to possess positive knowledge 
of a man answering to Robert’s description. Each 
time, when the information was brought to her, 
it seemed most genuine, and to betoken the fortunate 
conclusion of her quest. Each time, when she had 
followed up the clue, she found nothing, and brought 
back to faithful Zubley and Lit and the thriving, 
prattling baby at “ ’Nezer town,” a brave face above 
a bleeding heart. 

There seemed a whole fraternity of rumours 
afloat, probably children of some equally insubstan- 
tial parent, pointing to the presence in some Indian 
tribe of a white man who had fallen into his cap- 
tors’ hands during the Augustine expedition of 
1739-40. 

After following up the third one of these to the 
point where it vanished before the eyes of her 



CHAPTER XIII. 


THE THEFT OF THE MAN-CHILD 


O busk an’ boun, my merry men a’, 

Who’s last s’all ne’er get good o’ me. 
They ha’ stown awa’ my little fair son — 
An’ twa braw touns gaes to that one 

Who’s fand and bring him back to me.” 


HROUGHOUT all these journeyings, 



Return had been taught (with many and 


A solemn admonitions, supported and ren- 
dered effective by illustrative narratives) that he 
must never stray away from the party; never go 
beyond the sight of his mother, Lit, or Matthew 
Zubley, even with Chunkey. 

But here in the village their vigilance somewhat 
relaxed, and one evening, as the two women sat 
together sewing upon their travel-worn garments 
and his own small coats, Chunkey being at reluctant 
labour in the kitchen, the little bobbing yellow head 
and babbling tongue shifting and fluttering among 
the flowers just outside the window, Lit (whose 
mental state was probably somewhat the more 
normal, her mood less strenuous and intensely pre- 
occupied) suddenly remembered that she had missed 
both sight and sound of the boy for several moments 
past, rose quietly, and went to the door. 

There, she neither saw nor heard him. She said 


4^3 




“ f'LUTCHED HIM TO HER WITH NO S OUND 
^ BUT A DRY, STRANGLED SOB.” 





RETURN 


465 

day, in a maze of misery, too wearied with her 
last night’s searching to put one foot before the 
other, when a child came in and told Diana that 
an Indian man and woman wished to see her. 

She rose, a tragic figure, and went out to where 
the pair stood under the tall live-oaks before the 
cottage. The woman was young and fresh, and 
would have been almost beautiful but for the fact 
that her face was so marred by weeping, and her 
eyes so swollen from it that she looked like one in 
a fever. The man, a tall, fine-looking brave, greeted 
Diana with that peculiar sweeping gesture of the 
hand which is like the downward flight of a bird. 
Then both brown palms were spread abroad toward 
the earth with a gesture of renunciation, and he 
pushed forward to her a little figure in a single 
small buckskin garment, wearing some bluejay’s 
feathers stuck through a fillet of buckskin on his 
head, and hugging a gaily painted bow with arrows. 

“ Muvver,” cried Return, “ see what me b’inged 
you.” 

Diana darted upon the returned wanderer, 
clutched him to her with no sound but a dry, 
strangled sob. She held him so for a long moment, 
in which she seemed to gather back her spirit; and 
the docile, subjective little creature was very quiet. 
Then she kissed him, lips, cheeks, hair, and eyes; 
and her face began to live again. When she had 
looked him over jealously, he mildly squirming 
meanwhile to get away from her close embrace, she 
turned with eager, passionate gratitude to the 
Indians. “ Where did you find the child ? ” she 
breathed. 

The woman, who evidently understood no Eng- 







RETURN 


467 

he told us all; but we gave no heed to his baby’s 
talk, save to bring him the food; and he went out 
with it. ’Twas then the man took him. This 
woman, his wife, had a son, who is dead; so he 
says that she grieves all the time, and the Great 
Spirit sent her no more sons. And when he saw 
Return and remembered how much his wife wept, 
he thought he would take the child to her, and that 
she would weep no more.” 

Diana looked at the man with a sort of horror. 
Lit’s great, soft eyes were upon her face. “ Aye, 
mistress,” she said quickly, “ but don’t be too hard 
on them. ’Tis just as I said, they had no need to 
tell you, and they might have kept the child. But 
see, they have brought him back. He was blithe 
and willing — like a man as he is,” and she shook 
her head at the boy. “ There was no trouble on 
his part. But the woman says that when he slept 
upon her breast, and she was so happy, she could 
but think of another woman, who was his mother, 
and whose breast was empty that night, and how 
bad she must be feeling. So then, she tells her man 
that bring him home they must. And he made 
ready and brought them, carrying our little man 
nearly all the distance, which is near thirty miles, 
as I judge.” 

The Indians stood silent, though nowise sullen. 
The man, a noble physical specimen, remained a 
little apart, motionless, with folded arms, yet with 
eyes that were observant, even apprehensive. Again 
Lit looked earnestly at them, and then continued : 

“ The woman says she knows now that she did 
very wrong to weep so for her dead son, when she 
has so good a man ; for that he never uttered word 



RETURN 469 

the kind you give him. She prays that you will 
let him wear them, for that the moccasins will not 
make such noise when he moves about, as do the 
ugly stiff ones of the white people. She hopes he 
may be swift and light-footed and limber — a hunter 
— a warrior — one whose enemy cannot hear his 
loud, heavy step coming, nor follow him well, but 
who can himself steal up on an enemy and kill him, 
or the deer. I think by the looks of her that she 
hath done nothing but weep since she decided to 
bring the child back; and by your leave, mistress, 
it seems to me that this red savage, with the gentle- 
man to husband, has done more than many a civi- 
lised woman would have done in her place.” 

The Indian woman now came and knelt before 
Diana, and laid down the little bundle. There were 
the extra moccasins, which must have belonged to 
her dead child, and another little garment of buck- 
skin also, and some strange painted toys. 

Diana looked down at the pitiful offering, ^ and 
a great lump came in her throat. “ Poor soul,” she 
said, “ poor sister woman! I suppose a mother’s 
heart is the same, whether the skin above it be red 
or white; and I forgive you freely.” Her eyes 
were full of tears as she said it. 

The Indian woman stood up. Putting her hand 
on the little boy’s head, she looked wistfully at 
the yellow curls which rose about her brown fingers. 

“ I reckon she’d like to have one of them,” Lit 
prompted. 

“ Surely ! ” cried Diana, and drawing her scissors 
from her girdle pocket, she cut off a shining ringlet, 
and folding it in her own handkerchief, gave it to 
the squaw. 



RETURN 


47i 

the many weary and fruitless journeys which this 
same poor mother had made with her child in her 
arms, seeking one whom she seemed destined never 
to find; and she asked herself whether it would be 
right to give her this piece of very uncertain 
information which might send her forth upon travels 
more dangerous than any she had yet undertaken. 

As she reflected upon the matter, her hand went 
instinctively to her bosom, and drew out the letter 
which Bennerworth had written to her, and which 
she, poor soul, carried about as one might carry a 
relic of a saint, though unable to apprehend it. 

With the touch, came a new light upon the matter 
in hand. Suppose he were lost, possibly among the 
Indians, possibly in the bowels of a filthy Spanish 
prison-ship; could she know any rest or happiness 
elsewhere than in the search for him? 

Lit went in and acquainted Diana with the news 
which she had received, down to its minutest de- 
tails, adding that she believed she herself could 
guess in which tribe Robert might be found. And 
the next day the little party set out for the south. 



RETURN 


473 

hoped. And, as they came principally over the trail 
he had followed in making that wonderful and his- 
toric journey into the wilderness to meet the assem- 
bled chiefs at Coweta town, he could warn, counsel, 
and foresee much. There was a good boat, too, 
rowed by four picked Creek rowers, back on the 
waters of a small tributary of the Ocmulgee. 

Now, as they stood looking down on what they 
believed to be Alata’s village, athwart the top of 
that tall mountain peak over against them, the 
dying sun struck a ray like a pointing finger. This 
shining finger-tip emblazoned, for one long moment, 
upon the moutain’s shield of soft obscurity, the tiny 
figures of a moving party, like themselves, which 
crossed that way and went upward toward the 
country of the Cherokees. 

It was, in point of fact, had they known it, an 
embassage to the Back Enemy — the Six Nations 
— carrying proposals of peace. The white man 
whom the little group had come to seek, clad in 
beautiful soft buckskin, with richly wrought moc- 
casins on his feet and a splendid ambassador’s head- 
dress upon his fair head, halted his own party, which 
was a strong one of Alata’s picked warriors, and 
looked back as that luminous finger descended upon 
them. They were setting forth to gain what advan- 
tage they might by travelling in the cool of the 
evening, and later, by the light of the moon. 

The white man sighed impatiently, shook his 
bridle-rein, and moved on. Diana’s party, now in 
motion once more, going down to the queen’s town, 
was but a moving speck to him, as his caravan had 
been to her, and it held his sad eyes but a moment. 

Half-way down the slope Alata herself, with sev- 



return 


475 

that I am a crazed thing, that none other but myself 
would believe Robert still living. How is it ? Have 
you yet one grain of faith ? ” and she drew back, 
her hand upon the other’s shoulder, and interrogated 
the frank face before her. 

“ Why, so far as this Alata here is concerned,” 
Lit made characteristic answer, “ I think nothing 
of her. Lieutenant Marshall might be here, for all 
I know, hidden in one of the lodges ; and — and in 
any case, mistress, we will never give up till we know 
of his death. Is it not so? 1 will find out what 
I may, and bring you word, for truly — truly, my 
poor dear — the queen’s talk means naught to me.” 

But Lit, and her Creek friends who made up the 
caravan, had no better success. To their questions 
they got no answer at all, save from those who had 
heard Alata describe the white man ; and these only 
repeated and affirmed that description. 

What Diana missed, or lost, at this point through 
the fact of Chunkey being — from that fancied slight 
to her office as Return’s bearer — in one of her 
sullen fits, is a thing which can never be known. 
Much possibly ; possibly not anything. At any rate, 
it seemed now that nothing was to be gained by 
delay. And so, later in the evening, when the queen 
had a great feast made in their honour, and they 
were brought into the public square, where all the 
social affairs of an Indian village are transacted, 
Diana thanked Alata with florid courtesy (as she 
had been schooled) for her much kindness and hospi- 
tality, and told her in the same elaborate manner 
that they intended to remain but one night her guests, 
and would set forth at sunrise the following morning 
to retrace their steps. 



RETURN 


477 

chieftainess, they would both have been smoking. 
As it was, Toonahowi alone held the long-stemmed 
pipe, they both looked upon the ground and made 
no sign, while the Indians gathered at a distance 
left them, respectful of their mute communing. 

Toonahowi broke the silence. “ There is a white 
man captive in your tribe,” he said, gravely. 

After a mute interval Alata returned, “ There is 
no white man captive with my people. He remains 
with us because he chooses to remain.” 

Though she was an Indian, she was also a woman ; 
and when the reply to this reply of hers was so very 
long coming, she stole a look at her guest, but found 
his face impassive and his eyes fixed quietly upon 
the curling smoke from his pipe. 

At the end of what seemed even to her too long 
a silence, he said again, with no added emphasis and 
no weakening in the force of his assertion, “ There 
is a white man captive in your tribe.” 

“ Let my brother say what he will ; he is my 
guest,” she returned, with a sweeping upward ges- 
ture of her palm. 

Toonahowi gathered from this speech that he 
might proceed with the delicate mission which had 
brought him to this council. “ The white man,” he 
explained, “ is beloved by our general. He has a 
wife and a home among his own people. Now, we 
live with the white men as though they were our 
brothers; and they give to us cunning weapons 
and garments and food, as though they were our 
brothers indeed. But this thing which thou hast 
done, O Alata, is of the things which make war 
between brothers. I pray you let this white man 
depart with me.” 



RETURN 


479 

sister,” he said, “ I went with these white men across 
the great water to the east. I went to their head 
town, which is called London. I saw there their 
head man, who is king of all their chiefs, and ruler 
of them all. And I saw those about him, very 
great men. I saw their ships, their houses, and 
their many contrivances for which, in our language, 
I cannot even find words so that I may tell you of 
them. 

“ And one thing I saw which I may never forget. 
I saw that the white man and the Indian, though 
they call each other brothers, can never be brothers. 
My heart is warm to the man Oglethorpe; I love 
him as though he had been my father’s son, born of 
one mother with me; and yet he will go back to 
his own people, and it will be to him as though 
Toonahowi had been a dog or a horse whom he 
had owned and loved for a time in this country 
which is ours, and which will soon be theirs. And 
he will die and go to his God, who is strong and 
shall prevail ; not like the god of the Indian, 
powerless and resourceless — save to — ” 

“ These are strange words,” interrupted the 
queen; “this is bad counsel, my brother. If the 
white men are indeed evil men, and would take the 
land from us, why do we not band together and 
drive them into the sea ? ” 

“ What is all this talk,” responded Toonahowi 
severely, “ of bad and good ? I said nothing of it. 
I said only that the white men were not as the 
Indians, and could never be brothers to them. It is 
true; and I will say to you further, my sister, that 
they can never rightly be husbands and wives. 

. “ Once, my friend Oglethorpe tells me, it was 









RETURN 


48 1 


“ Tell me,” uttered the queen, very low. 

“ I had not thought to tell it while I lived/’ he 
replied to her. “ And yet, I tell this thing to you 
for good, and not for evil. Listen, O my sister: 
She was the daughter of a very great chief, a man 
whom the king loved as a brother; and when, with 
my uncle Toma-chi-chi and ten other Creeks, I went 
to the land of the white men, of all their fair women 
whom we looked upon, none was like to her. Her 
face was so shining that it was to me like the sun 
at noonday, and I could scarce look upon it for 
its brightness. Yellow, like the maize when it is 
ripe, was her hair.” 

The queen shivered a little, and her hand involun- 
tarily sought her breast, where lay a curl of such 
hair, which had been cut from the white man’s head 
when he tossed in delirium. 

“ And yet it was not her beauty that melted the 
heart of Toonahowi, and made it water in his breast. 
It was that the Great Spirit, when he sent the soul 
into her body and into the body of Toonahowi, had 
broken in twain an apple from the tree of life ; and 
of it, half beats in this breast, and half in the 
breast of her whom I shall never see again. So 
true is this, that when we looked upon each other’s 
face, we had no need for speech. I had learned much 
of her tongue, and she knew nothing of mine; but 
our hearts spoke always together as the birds speak 
in spring, when each knows the voice of the other.. 

“ For a little time Toonahowi was mad, and knew 
not the truth. But after he had seen much of the 
greatness of the white men, he knew that this flower 
of theirs was not for him, and he longed more 
for his own home than a man dying in that desert 



RETURN 


4 8 3 

who was Indian and chieftainess, but yet a woman, 
passed through the slow watches of the night, dry- 
eyed, waking, and shaken with a very terrible and 
silent grief, asking — as often before a woman has 
asked — what comfort to her thwarted heart was 
in the doing of this thing for honour’s sake. 

Yet the voice of honour did prevail with Alata, 
and on the morrow, just three days after Diana’s 
departure, Toonahowi set out toward Savannah with 
the fair-haired white man. 

They were a day’s travel from Alata’s town, when 
the white man turned to his Indian friend and asked 
whither they were bound. 

“ To Savannah, surely,” replied Toonahowi. 
Then, after a quick, unnoted glance at the face 
before him, “ To the general at St. Simons. I came 
up into this country to find one whom General Ogle- 
thorpe was very fain should be found, and my steps 
shall be swift to take you with me, to him who is as 
a father to Toonahowi and his Indians.” 

The white man, though Toonahowi had known 
him well in the old days, seemed, as the young chief 
himself would have said, a stranger to him now. 
“ I do not go to Savannah,” he answered briefly. 
“ I will not meet with General Oglethorpe. And if 
you feel toward me the kindness which your action 
in this matter would seem to show, you may do me 
the one service to set me in a trail toward — toward 
the nearest port, Charles Town.” 

“ The Indian is as a little child, my white brother,” 
the young Creek answered him gently, “ and as a 
foolish child, who ran forward trusting to have 
done much service. I love the man Oglethorpe, and 




RETURN 


4§S 

as much esteemed as Toonahowi, explanations would 
have been offered and demanded. But the young 
Creek, though he had seen and respected the wife’s 
devotion, and would have deemed her not deserving 
of abandonment and repudiation, yet could offer 
nothing, out of his own teachings, against such 
repudiation and abandonment at pleasure — and 
with no reason assigned — by a husband who was 
moved to the act. 

His mission had been a failure — as to the per- 
sonal aspect of it. He had meddled with that 
he understood not. He would meddle no more. 
He, and all his men, would forget that there had 
been any white man asked for — or found. 



RETURN 


487 

Finally Lit said, “ I know your mind, mistress, 
and that, having delayed this search so long, you are 
now in a desperate hurry; yet there is a place over 
northward — on an arm of the Amuchee, which 
flows into this stream — a traders' hut or shed. It 
stands high, and beneath great trees that would be 
cool. There we might stop and be away from the 
sun’s glare on this water, that does make the poor 
babe fret so.” 

Diana was very willing to turn out of her course 
for the sake of the baby, and in the dusk of the 
evening they came rowing up the narrower river 
toward the spot which they had approached by de- 
vious and tedious waterways. They did not reach 
it till after nightfall, and found it an oblong hut 
with thick log walls, and a great thatch of sedge- 
grass bound with reeds, the whole front open to 
the river. Diana promised herself that here she 
would remain till the boy was quite recovered, 
which might be several days. 

Little Return had fallen asleep, and Lit refused 
to have him wakened, but carried him on her breast 
up to the hut, of which they got brief and unsatis- 
factory glimpses by the flaring light of a pine torch. 
The two women crept about their narrow quarters 
and undressed themselves and the child in the dark, 
foregoing, for coolness’ sake, the hot light of torches. 

The things were brought up from the boat, and 
they were settling themselves with the infinity of 
small touches a woman, even on such a journey, 
gives to the room which affords her temporary lodg- 
ment, when Matthew Zubley, having talked with 
a group of Uchee Indians who were just leaving 
the place in a canoe, came hastening up the bank 



RETURN 


489 

town of Queen Alata to find a white man who was 
there; that you did find this man, and that he came 
down the river with you, a fair man with yellow 
hair; but I think I might have been misinformed; 
for surely, if he is in your camp you would have 
made haste to tell me.” 

“ Yes,” returned the young chief. “There is 
no white man in my camp. If there were, I should 
certainly have told you.” 

“ Is it not true, then,” Zubley urged, “ that you 
were looking for this man, and that you brought 
him so far with you ? ” 

Toonahowi looked at his interlocutor, and his 
heart was torn. 

“ ’Tis on Mistress Marshall’s behalf that I ask,” 
pursued Zubley, “ she whom you saw searching for 
her husband at St. Simons Island.” 

The Indian turned away as though to take counsel 
with himself, walked a step or two apart, and stood 
with bent head in the darkness. Finally he came 
back. “ I went into the country of the Upper Creeks, 
and found a white man,” he said ; “ so far you are 
right.” A long pause, then he raised his head and 
looked with sad eyes at the man before him. “ My 
errand was a failure,” he added, “ it was a failure 
— ask me no more.” 

Zubley was nonplussed. He saw the Indian’s 
good-will and distress, and yet the matter wore a 
most puzzling face. “ I am glad I did not tell 
Mistress Marshall of my hopes in this case,” he said. 

The Indian regarded him gravely. “ What I could 
do, I have done,” he said. “ Ask me no more.” 

“ I will bid you farewell, sir,” Zubley returned, 



RETURN 49I 

outlines as he saw it, a blur of blacker blackness 
against the sky. 

Entering the lower end of it, since he saw the 
upper rooms or pens were occupied, he threw him- 
self upon a pile of rushes and was soon asleep, the 
deep and dreamless sleep that follows exhaustion 
of body or mind, and in his case there had been 
both. In that very dark hour before dawn, while 
the weary man still lay locked in a slumber as stir- 
less as death itself, Zubley and his men came back. 

“ 1 only bold enough to wake you, madam,” 
he said, “ because I really think Lieutenant Marshall 
is near at hand. We must set off at once, and up this 
river three miles we come upon a trail. Where it 
crosses will be a ferry, and the ferryman can surely 
tell us if he hath set your husband over (which I 
think will be the case) and that within a few hours.” 

Once more the hurried preparations in the dark; 
this time dressing and packing, where before it had 
been undressing and unpacking. The approaching 
dawn made, of wall and rude couch, objects dimly 
conjectured. Once more the sleepy child was roused, 
made ready, and taken upon Lit’s shoulder. 

All the way up the little river, Return had been 
promised that when they got to the pretty house 
where they would stay, he should go out and pick 
flowers, as he had at Ebenezer. Now, as they 
stumbled down to the periagua in the dark, he raised 
his head and murmured sleepily, “ We most dot 
to 'at pitty house, muvver? I do det some Lowers 
for ee booful farver ? ” 

The rowers, whose keen, trained eyes could see 
some actualities in the palpitating dusk about them, 
pulled away with a will, and soon the little hut, 



CHAPTER XVI. 


OUTSIDE THE PALE 


" When I was a babe, and a very little babe, 
Stood at my mither’s knee; 

Nae witch nor warlock did unfauld 
The death I was to dree. 

Nane tauld o’ the lands I would travel in, 
Or where my grave wad be.” 



GNES had said in the early flush of her 


abandonment to an overmastering passion, 


that it was better to be crushed and broken, 
under the kingly foot of Love than to grow, an 
unnoticed weed, in the garden of the world. 

Still in the belief that her sufferings for Cam- 
eron’s sake were creditable to her, that they set 
her apart from her kind, and somewhat above them, 
she had followed the man to Charles Town. Not 
having been trodden upon sufficiently aforetime, 
when Cameron courted her as an heiress, and left 
her promptly on finding that her father’s money 
would never be allowed to line his pockets, she 
quitted Diana’s home and came north. 

She found her lover, as the Agneses of this world 
are apt to find its Camerons, with one foot (figur- 
atively) on the deck of a bark which was to carry 
him to the West Indies, where he had plans a-gate 
which promised him much money. Yet, when she 


493 



RETURN 495 

Archie would be back so very soon, it was not 
worth while — and she did not want it to be known 
that he, Archibald Tavis MacHeath Cameron, 
wedded a poor sempstress, cast off by her rich 
father. 

When the three months passed with no word 
from Cameron, and her funds running desperately 
low, she changed from her first location to a cheaper, 
and from that, when she was at her last pound, to a 
poor hut in a disreputable quarter among the human 
waveson of a seafaring population. It was not till 
this time that she made an attempt to obtain some 
work to eke out her scanty store. Had she done so 
when her surroundings though poor were decent, 
she might readily have found employment as semp- 
stress or teacher. But out of her present habitation, 
she could not issue to ask aught from her own 
class. She preferred to find such pitifully paid 
shreds of sewing as might be had among the women, 
her neighbours, who had not even the wealth we 
associate with vice. 

Three of these, a big Englishwoman, Jane Shum- 
way, and two companions, Meg and Poll, — for 
whom Agnes never knew any other names, — who 
lived together in a hut next hers, took her in some 
sort under their protection. They were good- 
hearted creatures, and it appealed to them in their 
degradation to have such a woman as Agnes — a 
lady, and one whose life was above reproach — 
dependent upon them. 

There was an uneasy wind abroad under a black, 
night sky at Charles Town. It was the nineteenth 
of March, 1743, and such an evening as makes 
people say that they wish it would storm and have 



RETURN 


497 

her — and he was denied her. Out of all the space 
which homes take, there was but one bit of ground 
which she could claim — that in which a grave 
might be digged. 

At thought of her grave, came up the sights and 
sounds of the Christmas fair at Savannah. Again 
she saw the rheumy eyes of the old Highlandman as 
he told her that her grave would not be in the 
kirkyard. 

That meant the sea. Yes, she would go home 
to the sea. Out of it had come all that old Farfrae 
MacBain owned ; beside it, a child, she had played ; 
across it come to follow her faithless lover; now 
to it at last — and there an end. She had seen 
the Seer often since coming to Charles Town. He 
peddled simples and charms upon the street. 

She got upon her feet, so weak that she could 
scarcely stand, and crept out. Passing the hut where 
Jane and her two companions lived, she looked 
eagerly for a light, but there was none. Once before, 
when she was ill, the three poor souls had kept her in 
the necessaries of life, forbearing, that they might 
do so, many a debauch, and demanding such help 
as they could from the men who were their com- 
panions. The degradation of that support had been 
such that she had declared to herself with weak tears, 
when enough recovered to realise it, that Farfrae 
MacBain’s child should have perished before she 
received it. Now, with the grim Fact confronting 
her, she prayed that one of them might be returned 
— that she need not die just yet — that she might 
have one more chance to ask for Cameron’s letter. 

Nay, there would never be a letter for her; 
there was no need to palter — as well go now. 





RETURN 


499 

Heath Cameron, who, the tidings having reached 
him, was pushing on as fast as wind and tide could 
take him to wed the woman whom he would have 
chosen out of all the earth, had his choice been left 
unfettered, the woman who now would bring him a 
mighty fortune, in his favourite wealth of ships and 
shipping. 

The ship that rode at uneasy anchorage in the 
gusty night was hers, hers many another as good, 
speeding now upon far seas to bring profit to one 
who should never receive it nor know of it. She 
turned silently from the sight. An undersized, 
faint-hearted looking woman, there was a mighty 
power of persistence in her meagre frame; but 
she had come to the end of it. The fire was burned 
out. The breath which fluttered on her lips was 
the breath of a dying woman, when she turned 
without having heard any sound at all, and found 
behind her, looking over her shoulder, the old High- 
landman, seer, vendor of simples, and of most evil 
repute. 

She drew back with a faint cry, and made to pass 
him. The old man plucked off his bonnet with a 
show of courtesy, “ Can I help you? ” he asked. 

“ Help ! — from you ? ” breathed Agnes, with a 
crawling of the flesh at him, as at something un- 
canny. “Nay!” she burst out, melted to sudden 
speech by contact with a listener, “ there is none 
can help me — now. I want no help. Stay ! Did 
you not deal in herbs — drugs — when I saw you 
last ? I have — There is — My face hath a most 
lamentable ache — can you not give me something ? 
— something powerful — for I tell you the pain is 



return 


501 

but in reality because he had been looking for them, 
the old Scotch vendor of herbs. To Jane Shum- 
way, in the lead as usual, he spoke a low word, and 
she set off up the hill running. Meg and Poll 
wondering somewhat, called a friendly epithet or 
two after her, and turned in to a public-house to 
refresh themselves. 

A little later, they came trooping up the street 
singing, bearing between them a jug of flip. Jane 
should share in their merry-making, even if she had 
shown an unfriendly spirit in hearkening to the 
auld herb-seller and skeltering out for home alone. 

They burst open the door and tramped in gaily. 
Jane raised her tear-disfigured countenance from 
the bed, where she lay face down. 

“ Ye huzzy,” roared Poll genially, “ runnin’ 
home afore your mates — and drunk a’ready! ” she 
added enviously — “ drunk, as Pm an honest 
wummun. Whence had ye the liquor? We were 
bringin’ ye the flip.” 

“ I’m no drunk,” sobbed Jane, sinking back on 
the bed. “ I wusht I worr. Agnes o’ Gleskie’s 
dead ! ” 

“ Dead, say you ? ” echoed Poll in a curious fall- 
ing voice, setting the flip jug down by the fireside. 
“ Dead?” 

“ Aye,” choked Jane. “ She’m dead and buried, 
this sennight. I would I had bided at home. I 
would I had axed her, ere we went, how all fared 
wi’ her. Oh, wummun, wummun, she worr as 
honest as the governor’s lady — as th’ queen hersel’ 
— an’ she perished for a dirty farding’s worth o’ 
bread!” 






RETURN 


503 

A comparing of half-empty pockets ensued; a 
handful of copper was gathered, and the three 
decided that a stone-cutter whom they knew would 
furnish them a marker for the amount — small as 
it was. 

“ Come, Meg,” coaxed big English Jane, of the 
red-haired Irish girl, “ you be th’ schollard, do 
ee write it out fair for us — leave th’ keening, lass ; 
you’ll ha’ me to bury soon, too, an’ y’ dunnot — an’ 
write out plain what sud go on th’ stane.” 

And it so fell out that, as they knew no other 
name for her, “ Agnes of Glasgow ” was all that 
was set above the grave of Farfrae MacBain’s 
daughter. 

In his small, wretched shop, the old Scotchman 
stood weighing out a drug to a customer. The two 
or three dusty shelves above his head bore a strange 
clutter of musty books, bottles, packets, or roots 
and dried herbs, broken household ware, and other 
trumpery suggesting in part a junk-shop, a vendor 
of second-hand books, or, as was his principal 
calling, a dealer in drugs and simples. The woman 
who was purchasing from him was fresh-faced and 
comely, a fish vendor, or fish-fag, from the harbour 
near by. Suddenly the door darkened, and Archi- 
bald Cameron entered. 

“Good-day, MacMurtrie,” said the newcomer, and 
when the old man looked up with a startled catch of 
the breath at this open use of his name, Cameron 
added, “ I took you for Angus MacMurtrie. Am I 
mistaken? ” 

“ Right enough,” returned the old man, in a 
wheedling tone. “ And what can I do to serve 



return 


505 

happy lover a-seeking of his lass; and yet, sir, I 
do say it to all who have left friends in Charles 
Town before the fever ran so bad; and that is — 
ha’ ye looked in the churchyards ? ” 

She went out, and Cameron, turning, stared 
moodily at his own hand lying upon the counter. 
It was tremulous; and he raised bloodshot eyes to 
the old Scotchman’s face, and asked huskily, “ Can 
you give me something to make me sleep, old man ? 
I have been in great anxiety of late, and I — Sleep 
hath forsook my pillow ; or if I do drop off, I have 
most gruesome dreams — of her.” 

There was a long silence, MacMurtrie making no 
move to produce the drug for which the other asked. 
Finally, with his eyes fixed on Cameron — those 
strange eyes, vague yet piercing — he said, “ Well, 
ye looked, and ye did na’ find her in the kirkyard.” 

“ How do you know I looked ? ” Cameron ob- 
jected fretfully. “ Well, I looked, then. It was 
surely good luck not to find her there. If she is 
living, she is faithful to me; that I know.” 

“ Aye, if she is living,” the old man echoed. 
“ But Erchie — Erchie Cameron — ha’ ye looked 
outside the kirkyard? ” 

“ Outside it ! ” Cameron’s eyes roved fiercely to 
the end of the counter, as though he would have 
sprung past it and been at the other’s throat. “ She 
was not the kind of woman to be buried outside the 
kirkyard. I tell you, old fool, she was my betrothed, 
and the best woman in the world.” 

MacMurtrie smiled, and when he did so his face 
was dreadful to see. “ Ou, aye,” he said with a 
sort of silent chuckle. “ The clairgy — of whom 
I was once a glowing and unappreciated ornyment 



return 


507 

art the man ! ” he whispered. “ ’Twas for your 
sake. I can see her, with your name on her lips, at 
the last. ’Twas for your sake, Archibald Cameron, 
that she died. And now, come, man, come. I will 
go with you. Let us look upon your completed 
work. Let us see her grave.” 

Cameron rose without a word. The shop was 
closed, and the two, amid the shadows of the falling 
day, went upward into the town. 

There, outside the palings of St. Philip’s church- 
yard, the old man found and showed to his com- 
panion that stone which the three women had raised 
above her that was gone. And across its top 
Archibald Cameron read the words, “ Agnes of 
Glasgow,” and a date but five days earlier. 

He stood so long staring down at it that the other 
touched his arm, and bade him come away. 

“ I tell you,” he said, turning fiercely upon the 
old man as though he had spoken, “ I did love 
her. I never cared for any woman else. I was 
coming back to her.” 

“ Aye,” said MacMurtrie, “ you were coming 
back to her — since that her father was dead, and 
she had a gey fine fortune to her.” 

Cameron did not deny that his return had been 
hastened by news of Farfrae MacBain’s death, 
intestate. 

“ Young beauties,” he went on moodily, “ what 
are they? Bound for to have a man ever on his 
knees to them. This was a woman to make a man’s 
fireside bright for him. This was a woman to make 
a man comfortable.” 

“ Come,” urged MacMurtrie, “ come back to the 
shop. Have you any business for me this trip? 



CHAPTER XVII. 


ALEXANDER BUCCLEUGH IS CALLED 

“ ‘ Wha is it ca’s i’ the mirk, mirk nicht? 

Wha speirs o’ me wheer fludes be pouring? * 

He saw nae mune, an’ nae stern licht, 

But he heard the water kelpie roaring.” 

f | ^RUE to his promise, old Dad brought 
Weeping Moon up to Toonahowi’s town, 
and there delivered her, with all her dowry 
of horses and cattle, and indeed much added thereto 
of household gear, clothing, and ornaments. 

All this was done without prejudice to the friend- 
ship between these Creeks and Dad; for the Creek 
custom in such matters was exactly this. The man 
who, not liking a wife, or wearying of her, sent 
her back to her people, was entirely within his 
rights. If she were a chief’s daughter, who car- 
ried dowry with her instead of being herself in a 
manner bought, and the retiring husband restored 
this dowry or its equivalent, he was held to be most 
magnanimous. And Dad resigned formally those 
princely cessions of lands the Creeks had given 
him along with Weeping Moon. He was then to 
rejoin Oglethorpe’s forces in the south, where he 
could be most valuable. 

Diana and her boy were at Wynnewoode. Ogle- 
509 





RETURN 


5 1 1 

lowering day, more like a southern September, Lit 
and her father started in a small periagua down to 
Savannah from Yamacraw. It was a broadish boat, 
with one pair of oars, and these they pulled sitting 
side by side on the central thwart. A mile out from 
Yamacraw, Dad resumed his arguments in favour 
of her going home to Scotland. 

“ I tell you, Dad,” she said finally, “ I am 
ashamed to go back there among all the fine peo- 
ple — ” She choked, crimsoning darkly ; then it 
came out with a rush — “ Me, that’s half Indian 
— and can’t read nor write.” 

The old man bent an inscrutable face to the oar. 
He was shamed to the soul by this arraignment 
which the girl had meant for no arraignment at all. 
“ Life,” he said, finally, “ is a game of Abel-whack- 
ets. We play our cards with some mighty brag- 
gings; and he is a sorry poltroon who claims — 
when the whacket falls to him — that Fate hath 
loaded her knotted kerchief most unfairly with a 
leaden pellet. Yet it does whack me most unmerci- 
fully, Lit, to tell ye the bare truth — I have lied 
so long. Your mother, my poor lass, was none 
other than Jean Dalkeith — Hold, there! Don’t 
drop your oar! Why, Lit, you’ll have us in the 
water ! ” 

But Lit was weeping wildly, the oar drawn in 
and flung down dripping in the bottom of the boat. 
“ O, Dad ! ” she sobbed. “ Why did you ever 
do me a cruelty like that? ” 

“ Was it cruel?” he questioned. “Yea, I’m an 
old brute to ask that. Yet I began it in a jest; and 
then there was Salequah, who had an Indian to his 
mother, and I could never bear to set you up above 




RETURN 


5i3 

drink ; and he went away to the northward to make 
a man of himself, he said, and show me that he 
could down the drink devil for my sake. Now, 
Dad, he has wrote me this here letter. He was away 
for my sake when he wrote it, and if so be my poor 
Frank has failed, and is writing and saying hard 
things of himself, why, I could not bear that any 
eyes but mine should see it.” 

(Ah, what eyes to read the tale of a man’s faults 

— great, tender, dark doe’s-eyes, deep-fringed, and 
merry, and passionately tender.) 

He reached forth his hand silently. “ You’ll 
never mind your old Dad, Lit. Why, lass, we 
were ever full partners, and for drink — ” He 
breathed a half-bitter little laugh. 

She took the packet from her bosom, gave it to 
him, and sat hungry-eyed while he read it, watching 
like a poor dumb animal-mother whose helpless 
young lie in the hands of even a loving outsider. 

“ Why, thank God ! ” cried the old man, lifting 
his glance to the open sky, which began to be filled 
with crowding, rushing, ragged-edged black clouds. 

“ What ? — what ? — ” queried Lit eagerly. 

“ ’Tis Bennerworth,” he said. 

“ Aye, ’tis Francie,” she assented. 

“ And he is doing well ; he has written to his 
father in England, he tells you; and his father is 
fain to have him bring home a daughter such as 
you would be ; he will be back by now to claim you 

— so that is arranged.” 

“ Nay, Dad,” she cut in jealously, “ I am no 
man’s daughter but yours. Why, what will you do 
without me? And you’ve given back the land, 
too — you, who were a kind of king, with all your 




RETURN 


5i5 

and splashing the water on each other — aye, and 
fighting a bit, when I would be bound to go first 
and have the best of it, as was ever my way.” 

The wind had become terrific, and it set from the 
sea, bearing up waves against them as it fought the 
current which carried them forward. Lit had been 
back in the boat’s stern to fetch a coat. Now she 
crawled on her knees to where her father sat. 
“ Dad ! ” she cried out, clinging to his shoulder, and 
shaking him gently, “ we might yet work in to land 
if we both use the oars. Come, let’s try it.” 

“ Yea, God,” he went on, apparently without 
hearing her, “ ’tis what we all are — naked children 
fighting in the water, the unfirm current beneath 
us, naught between us and the Seeing Eye; and 
there is solid footing nowhere — and naught re- 
mains — but all slips away — away — away.” 

“ Dad ! ” entreated the girl, “ will ye take an oar 
and help me? See, we can still land.” 

They were now in the channel between Hutchin- 
son’s Island and Savannah. They could see the 
town up on its bluff ; but no help was to be expected 
thence. The landing must be made, if at all, on 
the bit of beach at the bluff’s foot. 

“ Why, yes, my lass, I will put you off here; I 
will help you.” 

“ No ! ” she screamed, “ not me, not me ! Both 
or neither, Dad ! ” 

“ Na, na, lass,” he urged, “ ’tis Savannah, 
where ye were going. And lasses be best indoors 
in such weather. It looks as though it might be 
rough, after awhile.” 

She shook her head at him despairingly, and 
crouched silent in the boat which swept irregularly 



return 


517 

I that I couldna’ bear the common unjust lot of the 
younger brother? — and ’twasna’ his fault.” 

His eye rested on Lit, and he addressed her in a 
quiet, natural tone. 

“ Now, lass, I ha’ had a letter. See, I wrote 
him of you, and that you were Jean’s daughter.” He 
sought in his breast for the paper ; and Lit, believing 
that, where she was going, all letters would be 
unavailing, said, “Never mind it, Dad; not now.” 

But he drew it out and gave it to her, and she 
took it and put it in her bosom — a letter from a 
lonely old man in Scotland, who longed to have 
her with him. 

They were once more sitting together in the 
middle of the boat. “ I wish, Dad,” she said 
wistfully, when she saw him so strangely calm, 
“ that you would tell me of my mother.” 

“ Nay,” he answered her uneasily, “ I am very 
fain to speak of something else to you. At times 
like this, when there is a storm, or I have been 
drinking, I have a trick of seeing her, like a dream, 
d’ y’ mind? or a wraith as it might be, out there,” 
and he pointed forward into the obscurity toward 
which they were travelling. 

Out past Tybee the storm increased terrifically. 
Lit sat with her back to it, though not attempting to 
row, since her father would not pull the oar he had 
held. She looked over her shoulder at the raging 
inferno of livid sky and livid water, the screaming 
wind lashing between them. 

But whether the frail boat was sucked down like 
a rag of wet paper into the trough of the seas, or 
rode like a cork upon the wave crests, the old man’s 
face was calm. He sat now in the stern steering, 





CHAPTER XVIII. 


A SEA GIFT 

“The ship drave east, the ship drave west, 

By many a comely strand ; 

At length a blast o’ the wastlin’ wind 
Did blaw him to the land.” 

T HE Isle of Hope is an inland island, 
though upon every hand are rumours of 
the sea. To the east Skidaway and Was- 
saw fend the open Atlantic from its shores, with 
Skidaway River running between; and it is only 
cut off from the mainland by a marshy creek. Even 
the Skidaway, broad and deep as it is, does not reach 
the ocean itself, but empties into Ossabaw Sound, 
whose channel, choked with tiny islands, is more 
quiet than the surrounding waters. 

But the fierce tempest which swept yelling up the 
Georgia coast on that night when Alexander Buc- 
cleugh, being sent for, rode in his frail craft out to 
meet those who called him, troubled even the calm 
of Wynnewoode. 

Diana had come back from her last expedition, 
disheartened if not despairing. She had said— in 
the opening of her search — that she would never 
give up so long as there were cities to interrogate, 
forests to pierce, or wilds to importune. Now there 
5 r 9 



RETURN 


52i 

still — so far as sounds of human occupancy go 
— the gale increased in fury. It was a savage, 
petulant, gusty, changing wind, Which whirled and 
snatched and thrust about and about, never setting 
steadily in any one direction. It pushed and dragged 
and plucked at the house like snatching fingers, mak- 
ing as though it would have lifted it by the eaves. It 
gathered up the pebbles from the walks below and 
carried them against walls and windows, as though 
some one without were giving a signal, calling upon 
those within to waken and come forth. 

So painfully did this feeling of being needed 
press upon the heart of the mistress of the house 
that she threw a dressing-gown over her night-robe 
and stole down to the drawing-room. There she 
found one candle burning on the table, and Diana 
going from casement to casement, peering out into 
the windy dark, and listening to those strange, 
creaking, straining, groaning sounds, which a tem- 
pest will often bring with it. 

The two women turned with a little smile of 
indulgence, each for the weakness of the other, and 
met Sir Paris hurrying down the stairs. 

“ My dears,” he said, “ ’tis no use for a man who 
belongs to a seagoing family to essay sleep on such 
a night as this. I could have sworn I heard voices 
and orders shouted as a ship’s master shouts to his 
seamen, when that last heavy blow went past the 
house.” 

The windows wtere all closed. The gale outside 
tried at their fastenings like a living thing. As 
the three pale-faced people confronted each other, 
there came again that rending, cracking sound, and 



RETURN 


523 

The tempest had lifted the ship and the waters 
about it, and carried them up the channel of the 
Skidaway. Then, when the wind’s palm, pressed 
flat against it, ceased to hold the invading ocean 
banked about the strange newcomer, and the tide 
went rushing out, it left the big ship canted, aground, 
almost as strangely out of place as though on a 
city street. 

“ It was true then ! ” Diana cried. “ We did 
hear the shouting and the voices last night. Do 
you tell me that Return has gone over there?” 
They could see the sailors moving about the 
stranded deck, and Diana, who could eat no break- 
fast for interest in the matter, professed her own 
intention of following immediately. 

“ The young man took a bucket of fresh water 
— the servants were all going down with water 
and fruit, for we heard at dawn that there were 
sick men aboard, and a lack of both these. So 
Master Return took him his silver cup and the 
bucket that he filched from the cook, and is now 
away with the others to relieve their necessities.” 

As they stood looking out, they saw a tall soldier 
with a group of other men — servants and one or 
two sailors — following him, leave the ship and 
come up the lawn. As he neared the window, Sir 
Paris put up his glass with a sudden exclamation, 
and turned toward Hastie. 

But Hastie was out of the room and running 
across the hall toward that side entrance which the 
men from the ship were approaching. The two 
listeners both heard a strange cry, beginning in a 
voice like that of the boy when it veers between 
childish treble and scarce established bass. “ Ulys- 



RETURN 


525 

“ And what, my brother,” Sir Paris inquired, 
“ brought you to these waters in the season of the 
vernal equinox? ’Twas a mad thing to do — and, 
by that same token, most like you.” 

“ Why, I bear letters of marque, and have been 
taking of a Spanish ship which was carrying pris- 
oners to Spain. Thank God, I rescued thus a round 
score of our poor fellows from the Spaniard’s rapa- 
cious maw, who had already suffered no little of his 
cruelty.” 

Diana trembled with an agony of hope and fear; 
and no other tongue was able to form one word of 
inquiry. Finally, “ Robert Marshall ! ” she articu- 
lated, barely above her breath. 

“ Robert Marshall ? ” Ulysses seemed not to have 
noticed who it was that had spoken the name, nor 
to consider what its significance might be. “ I have 
a letter — ” He was searching in his pocket as he 
spoke, and unobservant of those about him, across 
whose faces a shock had passed. “ I have a letter 
— to — his — ” went on the bluff, unconscious 
sailor. 

Diana sat, pale to the lips, breathing with diffi- 
culty, and hanging upon his speech like one expect- 
ing sentence of death. The strain was so unbearable 
that Sir Paris half rose, and Hastie put out a hand 
toward her young cousin, though the eyes of neither 
left Ulysses’s face. 

“ A letter to his widow,” Ulysses concluded, be- 
fore anything could be done — though what could 
they have attempted, with Diana sitting there, listen- 
ing? When it was too late to try, Sir Paris, with a 
glance at Diana’s pale smitten face, sank back in 
his seat with a sigh that was almost a groan. Hastie 



RETURN 


527 

pression of one acquainted with grief, and grown 
patient of life’s crosses. It read thus : — 

“ On board the Spanish Barque Adelcmtado. 
Twelve Leagues (As we guess) from the 
Floridian coast. March nth, 1743. 

“ My Honoured Wife : — It seems fit that I 
should write these Lines, as every day threatens 
that I may not be Vouchsafed another in which to 
do so. 

“ I have now been a Fortnight in the possession 
of the Spaniard, having been taken by a flying War 
party of ^Danish Indians while I was making my 
way froifrl the inland Mountains to the Coast, and 
carried by them in haste to the Commandante at 
Augustine, who was then most Urgent to have some 
English Officers for Exchange. Now, Don Antonio 
Barba having shortly expired of his Wounds while 
in captivity at Frederica, I have daily reason given 
me to believe that I shall not be permitted long to 
Survive him. 

“ This being so, My Dear and Honoured Madam, 
I desire, ere I go hence, to take Measures that you 
should know my mind toward yourself. 

“ When we parted, I had laid the reins upon the 
neck of my Pride, resentment, and self-sufficiency; 
and to my present thinking, I made but a poor and 
unmanly Figure in that matter. Even before I 
chose to feel myself Aggrieved for that I was not 
loved, (who had deemed me most warmly Delighted 
in,) I bore no Inconsiderable part toward my own 
undoing, with the which — when the Event was 
come — I freely blamed thee. 

“ From the first, I was too intent upon thy Beauty, 




RETURN 


529 

since it is come, I go (on thy account) the more 
willingly. 

“ Always, beloved, in Life or in Death, thine only, 

“ Robert." 

Diana read it through with dry, anguished eyes; 
then thrust it into her bosom, and laid the will in 
Sir Paris’s hands. 

“ There, dear heart,” she said, “ take that and 
let me go — let me away awhile, until I learn to 
face it. Everybody will say — that I should have 
known it long ago. But I did not; I have hoped 
and hoped, and hoped against hope.” 

She looked so white and frozen — there were no 
tears — and moved so blindly, swaying and stagger- 
ing, that Hastie, with a swift instinct for what 
was best, cried : “ Bring the child to her ! ” 

“ Nay,” answered Diana, straightening her tall 
figure bravely, “ I will go to him — alone — alone. 
Do you all stay here, and let me hence to him alone. 
I will be better so.” 

So they drew back and let her pass. She went 
out, across the lawn, and down toward the place 
where the ship’s people and those who ministered 
to them were gathered. She paused finally on a 
little knoll that overlooked the river, and stood 
under Hastie’s great live-oaks, looking down at the 
tall vessel aground in the Skidaway, a few sailors 
in their blue watchet running over its rigging or 
moving across its slanting decks. 

She walked forward in that maze of anguished 
incredulity which always follows — for a time — 
upon the receiving of a blinding and unexpected 
blow. Here, then, was the end of her hopes, the 



RETURN 


53i 

in deadly peril. The Providence whose wing is 
stretched above the heads of little children protected 
her. 

She had made head against all bodily weakness 
and spiritual shrinking ; she had breasted diffi- 
culties like a brave swimmer. Refusing to admit 
impossibilities, she had despised danger, smiled 
upon privation and hardship, saying to weariness, 
“ Thou art my sister,” and to hindrance and diffi- 
culty, “ Thou art my chosen companions and coun- 
sellors.” And she had met disappointment upon 
disappointment, failure after failure, with an invinci- 
ble faith, and an undismayed and unconquered front. 

And this hope, this courage and faith, which 
obstacles could not daunt nor disappointment quench, 
had here met their mark. Here was the end; here 
the line, drawn by the Mighty Finger, beyond which 
the highest faith and courage and strength were 
even as the feeblest unfaith and fear and weakness, 
since nothing could avail. 

The event which she had said could never be — 
was here. It had been true long since. It had been 
already thus, when she dragged her weariness from 
hope defeated to faith denied. And that weaker 
twin which is born at birth to the strongest soul, 
began to whisper wailingly in her ear and counsel 
her to despair, so that she longed only to have her 
baby's head over her breaking heart. Ah, to hold 
him close, close; to feel his living limbs, to kiss 
his rosy face, since it was all that was left her 
now of a love which came too late! 

She lifted her eyes, and sent a questing look 
down past the group at the water’s edge, to the ship’s 
deck. At the moment, a boat from the grounded 




RETURN 


533 

manhood. It was a new Robert who had come back 
to the new Diana. The dimples only showed now 
when he smiled. The skin of infantine fairness 
had been tanned by the sun and wind. The blue 
eyes were deep and grave. The lower face, that 
had been so dimpled and smiling, was now moulded 
into lines of power and resolution, with a cast of 
sadness that was inevitable. 

During those years that he lived in Alata’s vil- 
lage Nature had been his companion; upon her 
large, impersonal kindness he had leaned. And 
whosoever lives long upon terms of daily intimacy 
with the face of earth, admits nature and her crea- 
tures to his confidence, holds discourse with the 
winds, and takes the sunshine as counsellor, must 
learn patience and largeness of view. 

Whosoever looks on at the operation of elemental 
forces, unhurrying, unstaying, unhating yet implaca- 
ble ; notes how the winds carry with equal hand the 
beneficent seed or the dreaded pestilence; how the 
waters flow alike to feed life or to destroy it; how 
the sun which brings the seed to germinate, hurries 
the dead thing to decay; must come to see that the 
Great Plan has but one animating force — love; 
and that it has nowhere room or use for little resent- 
ments, rancours, and bitternesses. 

“ My darling,” said Robert, after the first trans- 
port of joy and amazement had somewhat quieted, 
“ of all the things which I have guessed or dreamed 
in my many, many dreams of you, this thing I never 
thought of. To come home, and find you waiting 
for me — and with this treasure, this pearl of love ! ” 

“ Nay, dearest,” Diana whispered, “ I have not 
waited at home. I have searched every village and 




RETURN 


535 

And when the three went back to the house, Return 
riding upon the shoulder of his “ booful farver,” 
carrying still his little silver cup, they were received 
as we would receive one who, having been fondly 
loved, bitterly mourned, deeply, intensely yearned 
after, had returned to us from the dead. 

Ulysses would, with the sailor’s bluff directness, 
have asked the newcomer why, when he found him- 
self upon an English ship, whose commander was 
Ulysses Chaters, he did not make his own name 
known. But Sir Paris, when the conversation 
verged toward such a query, adroitly drew his 
brother aside and said to him: 

“We be bachelor men, you and I, Ulysses. One 
of us will not very long remain so, as I am think- 
ing/’ and he cast a humourous glance toward Hastie. 
“ As for the other, having been born a bachelor, 
he looks to die one; and there be many things in 
the affairs of married persons into which a bachelor 
should not inquire too straitly. It appears that our 
nephew, Robert Marshall, was a most devoted hus- 
band, and took the utmost pains to bequeath all his 
estate to his beloved wife in case of his death; and 
yet that when that death failed to take place, he 
showed no disposition to avail himself of the oppor- 
tunity to return to her, and even allowed the letter 
and will to fall into her hands which would persuade 
her of his decease. If now he seems most mon- 
strously delighted that his plans have miscarried, and 
the family been reunited, methinks it were best we 
ask no questions, but take a good thing as we find it.’ : 

“ Aye, and right thankfully, my sage philosopher 
— right thankfully,” responded Ulysses, glancing 









RETURN 


537 

what, think you, was his first word to me? He 
brings the boy in his arms, and asks whose child 
is it?” 

Lit laughed with the ghost of her old sauciness. 
“ Tis what no other living creature will ask who 
sees them side by side,” she said, patting the baby’s 
round cheek fondly. “ ’Tis what our little lad will 
sure never have the face to ask his mirror.” 

Hastie was making use of that newly found voice 
of hers to question Robert in regard to his cap- 
tivity. Sir Paris and Ulysses drew near to hear 
the answer. Lit, leaning forward, said whisper- 
ingly to Diana, “ O mistress ! I have somewhat to 
tell you and Francis.” 

Diana had acted as mediator between these two, 
had plead Frank Bennerworth’s cause when Lit 
seemed like to cast him aside, and had made what 
headway she could against that strange unwilling- 
ness the girl developed, when it appeared patent to 
all that Bennerworth was on the road to make a 
man of himself. The two felt her presence was no 
check; rather, it brought to the surface a thing 
which Lit would have told her lover before, but 
for physical weakness and its resultant confusion 
of mind. 

■ “O Francie! O both of you, my dears!” she 
cried, stretching a hand to each, while tears ran 
down her brown, beautiful cheeks. “ I dare love 
ye both now, as much as I list — and that s a 
plenty! See, I’m white, like yourselves. I’m no 
half-breed squaw, — Jean Dalkeith’s daughter, 
christened Jean, christened in a church, like any 
Christian of ye all ! Dad told me so, ere he went. 
Why, what could my Francie have come to, a-mar- 






L’ ENVOI! 


“ Christ died for alle. Forgie’s our sins ; 

Forget our errors past. 

For Christe’s sake forgiveness make; 

Bring us to him at last.” 

A S in nature, so in human affairs, there is 
a tide which has its flux and reflux, its time 
of going forth and its time of returning. 
As there are seasons in the solar year, so there are 
seasons in life’s cycle; planting, seed-time; and 
harvest, the reaping-time, when that which is 
planted, that which sun and wind and rain have con- 
spired to make grow, shall be reaped. 

And of these seasons, neither is better, and neither 
is worse. We need not cry out upon the seed-time 
that we cannot garner sheaves therein ; we are fool- 
ish if we reproach the day of harvest that it is fulfil- 
ment only, and mourn that the beauty of promise is 
not in it. These things must follow, in their order, 
strophe and antistrophe, or the grand hymn is not 
written. 

The years of this history had been to the colony 
of Georgia the going out of the tide, the planting- 
time, the time of giving forth. And he who was 
the husbandman of that day, who established the 
colony in an alien land, and among a savage people, 
who took for his seed the poor and the outcast of 
earth, those, unhappy, upon whom fortune frowned, 
— Oglethorpe, — was not to see the harvest. 

539 



RETURN 


541 

he desired to live an evil life or no. He found that 
the plans of the wicked are brought to nothing, and 
their spears are broken before the battle. He went 
to meet those who called him, a man purged of his 
faults, cleansed of unclean ideals, delivered from 
the fever of inordinate desires. 

Lit’s generous nature could bring her nothing but 
generous returns. The love she gave forth freely 
came back to her in like measure, pressed down and 
running over. The old man in Scotland who had 
longed to see Jean Dalkeith’s daughter, lived to be 
comforted in his last years by Lit’s bright face, 
her ready wit, her overflowing vitality. He clasped 
her little sunny rogues of Bennerworths upon his 
lonely old heart (what could the children of Lit and 
Francie Benner worth be but sunny rogues?) and it 
was permanently warmed and consoled. He made 
her his heiress ; and after he was gone, the old home 
in Georgia called her so strongly that she and her 
husband with their children came back to it, to 
make of it a home indeed. 

Francis Bennerworth, when he ceased to put forth 
self-distrust and trembling and shame, found that 
manhood could be reaped only from other planting 
than these. The faults of his youth were unknown 
to his middle life, and the name he founded in the 
State of his choice is still an honoured one. 

Agnes — poor, darkened child — what did she 
plant ? Even that which she reaped — failure — 
dissolution. She set the hopes of her life upon 
an object which she knew to be unworthy; she saw 
her error and clave the closer to it; and her end 
was even as her beginning, and not different as the 
unthinking might say. 





\ f ) 


RETURN 


543 

thorpe’s and Georgia’s historians, who preserve for 
us the story of that visit to London, in some cases 
enriched with a reproduction of the portrait of 
Toma-chi-chi and his young nephew painted at this 
time by Verilst (who, with probably the best inten- 
tions in the world, has certainly painted some of 
his own nationality into these dark faces), tell us 
also of the young Creek’s death. He fell in the 
very year of Robert’s return, fighting for his Eng- 
lish brothers against the Yainassee Indians at Lake 
Francis di Papa. 

He died in his young manhood; and she whose 
soul he had boldly claimed for his soul’s twin 
may have lived to an old age, the head of a noble 
English family. Yet, we may hope that when these 
two spirits came once more into their native realm, 
where there is neither marrying nor giving in mar- 
riage, where none saith aught of Indian or white 
man, they found each other once more and were 
content. 

Of Alata’s after history, nothing is known. We 
are not told whether or no she led her people in 
battle, married a man of her own race, and bred up 
warriors for the chieftainship after her. The only 
trace that is left us of this strong soul, mocked by 
the dancing false light of a passion that was an 
ambition, an ambition that was a passion, is a great 
mound upon the bank of a North Georgia stream. 
Dwellers in the little town across the river call this 
sepulchral mound, “ The grave of the Indian 
princess ” ; and investigators have found that she 
who lies there was in her lifetime called Alata 
Anawaqua. 

Tall forest-trees grow above that breast, the 




L. C. Page and Company's 
Announcement List 
of New Fiction 

The Bright Face of Danger. By Robert 

Neilson Stephens, author of “ Philip Winwood,” « A Gentle- 
man Player,” “ The Mystery of Murray Davenport,” etc. 
Illustrated by H. C. Edwards. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative .... $1.50 

Stephens’s most stirring story tells of the adventures of 
Henri de Launay, son of De Launay de la Tournoire, made 
famous in “An Enemy to the King.” Mr. Stephens has done 
what Dumas did in “ Twenty Years After,” except that, 
unlike the great French novelist, he has written his best 
story last. Writing, as only he among modern romancers can 
write, of fair women and brave men, the gay life of the 
chateaux and the dangers of the road, hairbreadth escapes, 
thrilling rescues and gallant combat, Mr. Stephens has 
accomplished, without question, his masterpiece of romantic 
fiction. 

“ Mr. Stephens has fairly outdone himself. We thank him 
heartily. The story is nothing if not spirited and entertaining, 
rational and convincing. If there were more stories like it, the 
historical novel would be in no danger of falling into disrepute.” — 
Boston Transcript. 

“ Mr. Stephens has a liberal share of the intangible verve and 
charm of Dumas, and he is at his best in ‘The Bright Face of 
Danger.’ It is a gay, dashing, youthful tale of dangers dire and 
escapes gallantly won. The situations are combined in fresh and 
captivating style. Things are kept moving swiftly, and the denoue- 
ment is effective.” — Chicago-Record Herald. 



LIST OF NEW FICTION 


3 


At Home with the Jardines. By Lilian Beil, 

author of “ Abroad with the Jimmies,” “ Hope Loring etc. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated . . $1.50 

Here we have the heroine of “ Abroad wdth the Jimmies ” 
(a book already established in the minds of readers as one of 
the author’s best) back to America, married, and trying to 
settle down. This book relates her experiences as a honey- 
mooner, a flat-dweller, a housekeeper, and a hostess. Among 
her guests — as well as counsellors and friends — are her (and 
the reader’s) old friends, the Jimmies, and her vivacious sister, 
Bee. These and a score of others — of whom the most promi- 
nent are Mary Jane, a new type of domestic, and “The 
Angel” — make up a pleasing group of folk with whom to 
pass a genial hour or so. 

Of “ Abroad with the Jimmies,” the following are but a few 
of a great many favorable opinions : 

“ A deliciously fresh, graphic book. The writer is so original and 
unspoiled that her point of view has value.” — Mary Hartwell 
Catherwood . 

“ Full of ozone, of snap, of ginger, of swing and momentum.” — 

Chicago Evening Post . 

“ ... Is one of her best and cleverest novels . . . filled to the 
brim with amusing incidents and experiences. This vivacious nar- 
rative needs no commendation to the readers of Miss Bell’s well- 
known earlier books. They will all read it, and they will enjoy it, 
and that is one of the safest prophecies we have made for some 
time.” — N. Y. Press. 

The Sign of Triumph. A Romance of theChil- 

dren’s Crusade. By Sheppard Stevens, author of “ I Am 

the King.” Illustrated by H. C. Edwards. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative . . . . $1.50 

This is a romantic story, dealing with the incidents of the 
Children’s Crusade, and depicts the pathetic experiences of 
that army of infant martyrs to the cause of religion. Inter- 
woven with this account is a delightful romance. 

“ The author has utilized to unusual effect the picturesqueness and 
fanaticism of the Crusading children in a story filled with eager 
charm and stamped with stern truth.” — Boston Transcript . 



LIST OF NEW FICTION 


5 


An Evans of Suffolk. By Anna Farquhar, author 

of “Her Boston Experiences,” “ Her Washington Experi- 
ences,” etc. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative . . . . $1.50 

This is a powerful story of modern life. The principal 
character is a young woman who marries into a conservative 
Boston family without explaining her antecedents, and is 
obliged to exercise all her woman’s ingenuity to keep un- 
known the existence of her father, who is the “ black sheep ” 
of a distinguished English family. She gradually becomes 
involved in deception, which grows more and more difficult to 
maintain, and which threatens to finally overwhelm her. The 
plot is strong, and the telling is brilliant, while the book has 
much of the author’s gift of social satire, which was so cleverly 
displayed in “ Her Boston Experiences.” 

The Motor Pirate. By G. Sidney Paternoster. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, with frontispiece $1.50 

Mr. Paternoster, in his new book, “ The Motor Pirate,” has 
quite outdistanced all competitors. The story is a rattling 
good one. Told by a man who is a rich landowner and 
motor enthusiast, it rushes from incident to incident in an 
almost breathless fashion. There is a strong love interest in 
the book, and all the characters are well drawn. Turpin, in 
truth, has been out-Turpined by Mr. Paternoster, who must 
be congratulated on a most successful work of fiction. 

The Second Mrs. Jim. By Stephen Conrad. 

With a frontispiece by Ernest Fosbery. 

Large 1 6mo, cloth decorative . . . • $1.00 

Here is a character as original and witty as “ Mr. Dooley ” 
or the “ self-made merchant.” The realm of humorous fiction 
is now invaded by the stepmother. 

A shrewd, middle-aged spinster marries a prosperous farmer 
with two boys, and makes them a model wife and mother. A 
clever climax is attained when she pulls the oldest boy out of 
love with the wrong girl and into love with the right one. 
Much quaint philosophv is mingled with extremely humorous 
sayings in dialect. The book will be read with many inward 
chuckles and outward laughs of appreciation. 



Selections from 

L. C. Page and Company’s 

List of Fiction 

WORKS OF 

ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS 
Captain Ravenshaw ; or, the maid of 

Cheapside. (40th thousand.) A romance of Elizabethan 
London. Illustrations by Howard Pyle and other artists. 

Library i2mo, cloth $1.50 

Not since the absorbing adventures of D’Artagnan have we 
had anything so good in the blended vein of romance and 
comedy. The beggar student, the rich goldsmith, the roisterer 
and the rake, the fop and the maid, are all here : foremost 
among them Captain Ravenshaw himself, soldier of fortune 
and adventurer, who, after escapades of binding interest, 
finally wins a way to fame and to matrimony. 

Philip Winwood. (70th thousand.) A Sketch of 
the Domestic History of an American Captain in the War of 
Independence, embracing events that occurred between and 
during the years 1763 and 1785 in New York and London. 
Written by his Enemy in War, Herbert Russell, Lieutenant 
in the Loyalist Forces. Presented anew by Robert Neil- 
son Stephens. Illustrated by E. W. D Hamilton. 

Library i2mo, cloth . . . . . . $1.50 

“ One of the most stirring and remarkable romances that have 
been published in a long while, and its episodes, incidents, and 
actions are as interesting and agreeable as they are vivid and 
dramatic.” — Boston Times. 

The Mystery of Murray Davenport. (3°* 

thousand.) By Robert Neilson Stephens, author of 
“ An Enemy to the King,” “ Philip Winwood,” etc. 
Library i2mo, cloth, with six full-page illustrations by H. C. 

Edwards $1.50 

“This is easily the best thing that Mr. Stephens has yet done. 
Those familiar with his other novels can best judge the measure of 
this praise, which is generous.” — Buffalo News. 

“Mr. Stephens won a host of friends through his earlier volumes, 
but we think he will do still better work in his new field if the 
present volume is a criterion.” — N. Y. Com. Advertiser, 








LIST OF FICTION 


3 


WORKS OF 

CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS 

Barbara Ladd. With four illustrations by Frank 
Verbeck. 

Library 1 2mo, gilt top $1.50 

“ From the opening chapter to the final page Mr. Roberts lures 
us on by his rapt devotion to the changing aspects of Nature and 
by his keen and sympathetic analysis of human character.” — Boston 
Transcript. 


The Kindred of the Wild. A Book of Animal 
Life. With fifty-one full-page plates and many decorations 
from drawings by Charles Livingston Bull. 

Small quarto, decorative cover $2.00 

“Professor Roberts has caught wonderfully the elusive individu- 
alities of which he writes. His animal stories are marvels of sym- 
pathetic science and literary exactness. Bound with the superb 
illustrations by Charles Livingston Bull, they make a volume which 
charms, entertains, and informs.” — New York World. 

“ ... Is in many ways the most brilliant collection of animal 
stories that has appeared . . . well named and well done.” — John 
Burroughs. 


The Forge in the Forest. Being the Narrative of 

the Acadian Ranger, Jean de Mer, Seigneur de Briart, and 
how he crossed the Black Abbd, and of his Adventures in a 
Strange Fellowship. Illustrated by Henry Sandham, R. C. A. 

Library i2mo, cloth, gilt top $1.50 

A romance of the convulsive period of the struggle between 
the French and English for the possession of North Amer- 
ica. The story is one of pure love and heroic adventure, and 
deals with that fiery fringe of conflict that waved between 
Nova Scotia and New England. The Expulsion of the Aca- 
dians is foreshadowed in these brilliant pages, and the part of 
the “ Black Abbd’s ” intrigues in precipitating that catastrophe 
is shown. 




LIST OF FICTION 


5 


WORKS OF 

LILIAN BELL 

Hope Loring. Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill. 

Library 1 2mo, cloth, decorative cover . . . $1.50 

“ Lilian Bell’s new novel, ‘ Hope Loring,’ does for the American 

girl in fiction what Gibson has done for her in art. 

“ Tall, slender, and athletic, fragile-looking, yet with nerves and 
sinews of steel under the velvet flesh, frank as a boy and tender and 
beautiful as a woman, free and independent, yet not bold — such is 
‘ Hope Loring,’ by long odds the subtlest study that has yet been 
made of the American girl.” — Dorothy Dix , in the New York 
American. 

Abroad with the Jimmies. With a portrait, in 

duogravure, of the author. 

Library 1 2mo, cloth, decorative cover . . . $1.50 

“ A deliciously fresh, graphic book. The writer is so original and 

unspoiled that her point of view has value.” — Mary Hartwell 
Catherwood. 

“ Full of ozone, of snap, of ginger, of swing and momentum.” — 
Chicago Evening Post. 

“ ... Is one of her best and cleverest novels . . . filled to the 
brim with amusing incidents and experiences. This vivacious narra- 
tive needs no commendation to the readers of Miss Bell’s well-known 
earlier books.” — N. Y. Press. 

The Interference of Patricia, with a frontis- 
piece from drawing by Frank T. Merrill. 

Small i2mo, cloth, decorative cover . . . $1.00 

“There is life and action and brilliancy and dash and cleverness 
and a keen appreciation of business ways in this story.” — Grand 
Rapids Herald. 

“ A story full of keen and flashing satire.” — Chicago Record- 
Herald. 

A Book of Girls. With a frontispiece. 

Small i2mo, cloth, decorative cover . . . $1.00 

“ The stories are all eventful and have effective humor.” — New 
York Sun. 

“ Lilian Bell surely understands girls, for she depicts all the varia- 
tions of girl nature so charmingly.” — Chicago Journal. 

The above two volumes boxed in special holiday dress , per set , $2.30. 











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